


Same Moth, Different Flame

by EurovisionWrongContest



Category: Eurovision Song Contest RPF, Festival di Sanremo RPF, metamoro - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Angst, But warnings will be given before each chapter, Eurovision, Guard!Ermal, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, MetaMoro, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Prison AU, Prisoner!Bizio, Smut, will get DARK
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-07-01 07:28:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15769407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EurovisionWrongContest/pseuds/EurovisionWrongContest
Summary: When Fabrizio is sentenced to eight years in prison for drug charges, he feels his whole world collapsing before him. He's destined to be a failure, a criminal, a monster for the rest of his life, and there's nothing that can change that.Ermal is a struggling linguist who reluctantly accepts a job at the local prison as a guard. There, he meets Fabrizio, and his whole life is turned upside down. For better, or for worse...





	1. Prologue- Criminal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [salvasobro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salvasobro/gifts).



Criminal  
noun  
a person who has committed a crime.  
"these men are dangerous criminals"  
Synonyms: lawbreaker, offender, villain, delinquent, malefactor, culprit, wrongdoer, transgressor, sinner...

 

adjective  
(of an action or situation) deplorable and shocking.  
"he may never fulfil his potential, and that would be a criminal waste"  
Synonyms: deplorable, preposterous, shameful, reprehensible, disgraceful, inexcusable, unforgivable, unpardonable, unacceptable...

 

January 22nd, 2008

His eyes are fixed onto the ground.

Handcuffs cut into his tanned skin, leaving a dull, purple mark. Not as notable as the metaphorical mark they represent: they scream out you are dangerous, those hands could harm someone. You can’t be trusted to use them, that’s a privilege reserved for better members of society. For the teachers, the doctors, the mothers…

He knows the mother of his children is sat in the public gallery, awaiting the jury who will shortly return and determine the rest of his life. Whether he will be denied his freedom, or spared incarceration. He doesn’t make eye contact with her. He’s barely been a part of their lives since he chose heroin over them, and he knows she hasn’t forgiven him. Perhaps she will someday. He wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t.

His five-year-old son is at school, likely playing football with his friends. He doesn’t know papa could go to prison, but does it really matter when mama’s the one to pick them up from school, read stories with them, do homework together with them…

Nobody wants a junkie for a father. Except for his daughter, but it’s difficult to comprehend addiction and stealing and lying and being an absent parent when you’re one year old. As long as the hands that hold you are gentle, and the voice that lulls you to sleep is soft, there’s little else you’d want for.

The judge is old, with wrinkles on his forehead settled into a stern expression. His glasses hover on the top of his nose as he gives cross looks to the defendant. There’s power in his gaze, an innate haughtiness. He could ruin your life. He has your freedom in his hands.

His parents didn’t come. They couldn’t stomach it, their son sat in a dock, accused of dealing drugs for a kingpin so powerful the law turns a blind eye to his deeds. (Provided he gives the policeman a few crisp banknotes every once in a while.) Perhaps they expected this- their son never engaged with the teachers at school, choosing instead to wander to a grey skatepark, covered with vomit stains and graffiti, to sit and drink with the few boys he could call his friends. They smoked cigarettes too, desperate to feel a buzz, to ease the numbness that their bleak future offered them. Boys from San Basilico didn’t grow up to be successful. That was an illusion, a feeble promise to keep them from criminality and give the police less work to do. Academics could go to university, then to the city, then to a happy future with a wife, three bedroom house, and two children. But for those already disillusioned, there was less hope. Physical labour was their future, every day, until they got too old and retired quietly. Perhaps a flat and a girl who’d sit and watch the football with them. Not a dream, but a reality that they were expected to accept without complaint. Nicotine was what made their hearts speed up, and cocaine gave that thrill reality never would. Heroin was just waiting, always around the corner, beckoning them closer and closer, and there were dealers to be found in every avenue where there were young people to entice…

And he’d unwillingly wound up one of them.

Like he’d ever fought the urge to use. He was pathetic, a failure, just like he was always destined to be. But the money soon ran out, and when you can’t pay the law to look the other way, it takes you into its labyrinth of holding cells and interviews with lawyers and courts that possess a rare form of beauty that intimidates and oozes condescension. The marble floor is pristine, and is what he fixes his gaze on. The judge reminds him of his father, and he feels every eye in that room staring at him, watching, judging, scathing…

At some point, the jury returns. A pattering of high heels and gruff coughs and filing of papers. Reluctantly, he looks up to meet their eyes. To see if they have any hope to offer, any sign of pity…

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a unanimous verdict?”

Such pompous words, the judge speaks as though he’s addressing guests at a dinner party, not a group of randomly picked citizens about to determine the outcome of the trial, the next years of a man’s life…

“We have, your honour.”

He feels sick. His hands tremble and he blinks, desperate to prevent tears from welling up. Everyone’s staring, he can feel their judgement like knives to his heart. None of them know addiction, none of them know desperation like him. They don’t know his past, just the events of that one fateful day when he mistook the addict for the policeman in civilian clothes…

He feels the walls he’s built up around him over the years caving in on himself. He wants it to be over. There isn’t a place he can necessarily call home, but he craves it more than anything right now…

“Do you find the defendant, Fabrizio Mobrici, guilty of the possession of heroin with intent to supply for money?”

Here it is. His life is like a coin that’s been flung up in the air, and everyone’s waiting, watching with beady eyes, to see if it falls on heads or tails. He bites his lip, to prevent a sob from escaping. How the fuck did this happen? How the fuck did he make the same mistakes over and over again?

At 21, he’d suffered an overdose. Had his father not wandered into the house for a glass of water, he’d have been dead. So, naturally, promises of getting clean and rehab and getting his life back on track had followed. And promises had been broken. To his family. To Giada. To his children. To himself…

“Guilty.”

There are no cries of shock. No cheers. No nothing. Just silence. A silence, that feels like hours of eerie quiet, as the world condemns him. Fabrizio isn’t a mason, a father, a son, anymore. He’s a criminal. The word sounds sour on his tongue, and bile threatens to rise up.

But, funnily, there’s a sense of relief. It’s over. The world knows the whole truth now, and they can do what they like with it. He knows where he stands in society’s eyes. Now all that remains is…

“I sentence you to eight years in prison, without suspension or early release for good behaviour.”

And then he hears the sob from the gallery. The mother. She has to go home and tell her children that Papa won’t be coming home. That they can’t go to see him today. Or tomorrow. That Libero will be a teenager before Papa’s released. And Anita will be 9, grown up, with only one parent to guide her through her childhood years.

He’s fucked up. He knows it.

And there’s nothing he can do to fix the mess he’s made. He can only allow the two jailers to lead him down to the cells. Mindlessly, he picks up his few belongings and follows them to the van outside. He doesn’t know where it will take him, and it doesn’t matter. Prison is prison. He’s kept under lock and key regardless, denied any contact with humanity. He breathes in the fresh air, gazes at the grey sky, savouring the last taste of freedom. Then the 27-year-old is bustled on to the van and pushed into a seat. The doors close. The guard holds a gun. The engine starts.

And the tears finally fall.


	2. Was the world always this cruel?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CIAO RAGAZZI!
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos, comments etc. so far. They mean so much and I hope you like this chapter as much as the first one (I don't, but I've spent so long on it that this will have to do).
> 
> Potential triggers: Animal abuse (very brief), mentions of child abuse, mentions of vomit

Chapter One- Was the world always so cruel?

 

_**“Hate Mondays? Try unemployment.”** _

-

_January, 2010_

It’s absolutely freezing, and a cloud of condensation forms with every breath he takes. The gloves he wears are worn and tattered, and the coffee cup which he had been using as an improvised hand warmer has gone cold and soggy. He waits on the bench where they always meet before going for lunch, his head fixated on the ground and his back hunched over.

 

All throughout university, he’d loved the freedom of being able to wake up whenever suited him (save the days he had early morning lectures), work at his own pace when he felt most motivated, choose the projects and modules that caught his eye the most. But right now, he’d happily rise before dawn every morning, seven days a week, have ordered barked at him by an arrogant manager, and volunteer himself to do the most horrible jobs if it meant he’d get pay, and employment.

 

“Hey, how’d it go?”

 

An older man sits down next to him on the bench, a hopeful smile bringing out the little dimples in his cheeks. When he receives nothing but a sigh in response, he rests a gloved hand on his friend’s knee. 

 

“What happened? Tell me what they asked you,” he says, pausing to give his friend the chance to speak. He knows the boy will open up eventually, but gives him time nonetheless, aware that making assumptions or flimsy small talk to fill the silence just pisses him off.

 

“They offered me the job on the spot, five days a week, nine til five, with a fantastic salary. I’m celebrating by freezing my ass off in a grimy park in the freezing cold, thrilled that the three years I spent studying the most useless degree in Italy have finally paid off after two glorious years of unemployment. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be able to afford a flat with heating next year…”

 

“Ok, you can drop the sarcasm. I was just asking.”

 

“Rejected. Again. Not enough experience. Like I can’t conceive that products have to go on shelves, and customers do have to pay.”

 

The man’s head droops further downwards, his curls hanging in front of his face, damp from the gentle drizzle of rain. His friend puts a comforting arm around his shoulders and takes a deep breath.

 

“Ok, so the job hunting quest continues another day. But you know it’s not you who they have a problem with, Ermal, it’s just the way things are. No one has enough money to gamble on a man with no experience. It sucks, but that’s life.”

 

“C’est la fucking vie”

 

“How long have you been sat here? You’re going to catch a cold, you’re not even wearing a coat for god's sake.”

 

“I’ll be fine.”

 

There’s an uncomfortable silence between the two, broken only by a scratching, squeaking noise coming from underneath the bench. 

 

-

_ Albania, 1993, The school playground, lunchtime _

 

BAM!

 

Ermal falls to the floor, clutching at his head where the football slammed into him. It doesn’t hurt too much. Not as much as the way all the boys and girls point at him and laugh. He wants to run, he wants to go to his mother’s embrace, protected from their mean stares and nasty words. Brushing the dust off his trousers, he picks himself up and bends down to collect the little yellow satchel with his sandwiches in. 

 

A few seconds later, he spies a place at one of the tables on the grass, and heads over to sit there, when-

 

“Sorry, Ermal, Arian’s sitting there.”

 

“If you move up, there’s room for both of us.”

 

“No there isn’t. Anyways, we’re talking about football, and you don’t play, so you can’t join in.”

 

“Come on, I just want to eat my lunch.”

 

“Then you can sit on your own somewhere else.”

 

“Fine.”

 

And with that, Ermal walks away, heading to the old willow tree with the little stump. He’d sat there for four days in a row now to eat his lunch, and it wasn’t the most comfortable place. As he bites into his sandwich, he hears a squeaking noise from underneath his legs.

 

“Fine, Pistachio, I’ll give you some cheese.” He scatters a few crumbs on the ground for the little mouse to nibble at. The mouse looks at him gratefully before gobbling up the offerings. 

 

“Don’t you go telling all the mice about this though, because I won’t be able to feed you all and I don’t want any fighting, understood?”

 

Then the football shoots his way, missing his face by a mere fraction. He ignores it and when one of the boys shouts at him to kick it back, he says nothing. Angry, two of them stalk over to loom over him. They’re big boys, perhaps eleven, and have angry faces.

 

“Next time, when we tell you to do something, you do it, understand?”

 

Ermal looks down at his shoes, he wants to yell at them, ask what right they have to tell him what to do, but he just nods quietly. However, Pistachio gives an encouraging squeak, apparently giving the two footballers a piece of his mind.

 

“Yuck, what’s that?”

 

“Oh, Ermal, are you really that lonely that you have to talk to the mice for company?”

 

“Maybe that’s why he’s always so dirty, because his only friends are animals.”

 

Ermal’s curls hang in front of his face, and the boy is grateful as they hide his tears from the two older boys. He’d hate for them to see him cry…

 

“Hey, what’s taking you so long?”

 

A few more boys run up to the tree to investigate what the hold up is. 

 

“Nothing, Ermal was just introducing us to his friend, if you could call it that”

 

The tallest boy reaches down and picks up the mouse, squeezing his feeble body, as the creature throws his head about in panic, his little paws trembling like wild.

 

“Put him down! You’re hurting him!”

 

“Oh look, baby Ermal is crying”

 

“Stop it, please! Pistachio’s done nothing to you!”

 

“Pistachio? You named it? You actually named this vermin?”

 

“Let me see it! Pass it over!”

 

“Yuck, you’ll catch fleas!”

 

“Here! Catch!”

 

“Stop it, stop it! Just put him down!”

 

“Oh my god, he’s filthy! You take him, quick!”

 

“Put him down or I’m throwing your stupid ball onto the roof!”

 

That shuts them up. But just for a millisecond, for the tallest boy, the one who’d first picked up the mouse, takes the creature from his friend’s hand.

 

“As you wish.”

 

And he throws Pistachio, with full force, at the tree stump. Ermal hears the crack of his fragile bones and sees the way his tiny body convulses, once, twice, then goes completely still, a puddle of blood trickling out from the corpse.

 

And Ermal sees red.

 

Boiling with anger, with his face teary and flushed, he launches himself at the murderer, punching, kicking, biting, unleashing his fury. Blood spurts from the boy’s nose and the teacher on duty runs towards them, but Ermal doesn’t care. 

 

It’s the first and only time he’s ever punched anybody.

 

And the six year old was well and truly punished when his father found out. Ten lashes of the belt, the thin leather one with the buckle, the one that always broke the skin…

 

He still has the scar below his shoulder blade.

 

-

 

Marco rises from the bench, pulling Ermal up to walk alongside him. Rather than spend the precious little money Ermal has, they walk up to Marco's apartment for lunch, and in his case, to work out what’s really bothering Ermal, who is unusually grumpy, even for a cold, Monday morning. They eat in silence, broken only by the clinking of spoons against bowls. Halfway through the meal, Ermal throws his spoon down, burying his head in his hands.

 

“Ermal?”

 

“I’m going back to Bari.”

 

“What? Why? When was this decided?”

 

“Last week. The landlord has given me a month to get my shit together or leave, and without a job, I’ve no choice but the latter. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier but it’s not like it’s unexpected…”

 

“Shit. Only a month’s notice?”

 

Ermal shrugs and picks up the spoon again, his voice low and threatening to break any second.

 

“I’ve let them all down, Marco. All the money on university and it counts for nothing. I should have found a job in Bari five years ago when they still existed.”

 

“Look, Ermal, nobody could see the crash coming, there are thousands of people like you, struggling to find work, chasing dead ends, it’s nothing personal.”

 

“But mama has enough on her plate with Sabina and her baby and her own job, I can’t go back and cause them all trouble, even if I could face their pity and disappointment…”

 

“Right, Ermal, wait there.”

 

And with that, Marco rises and walks into his bedroom, closing and locking the door behind him. Ermal sits in silence, listening to the conversation coming from the radio. A few minutes later, Marco emerges from the room, phone in hand and a triumphant smile on his face.

 

“What’s got you all smug? No, let me guess, that magazine wants to publish your article-”

 

“I’ve got you a job.”

 

“Ha ha very funny. Now, what was it really about?”

 

“I called my boss. Dino’s leaving soon to move to Rome, so there’s a vacancy and he’s going to give you the chance. It hasn’t even been advertised yet.”

 

“You’re...serious?”

 

“No, I get a kick out of building your hopes up when you’re so down in the dumps and then letting you down to make you even more depressed. Of course, I’m serious, you’re my best friend, I want the best for you.”

 

-

 

_ The University of Milan, 2006, Ermal and Marco’s shared bathroom _

 

“Ermal, are you going to throw up again, or can I let go of your hair to open a window?”

 

“I’m told you, Macco, is’ fine…”

 

“Don’t move from the basin, just in case.”

 

Marco lets go of the young man, who immediately sits back, flopping against the wall like a sack of potatoes. His head is fuzzy and he can’t quite see straight, he doesn’t really remember how he got here…He knew there was something to do with an exam, his least favourite teacher and five (maybe six? seven?) shots of tequila. Never again. That stuff was poison, just remembering the taste of it, that pure undiluted alcohol makes him want to, oh god…

 

“Ermal! What did I just say?”

 

At the sound of Marco shouting at him, Ermal puts his hand to his mouth, a guilty expression on his face as he regards the bathroom floor, now covered in vomit.

 

“S’not my fault, it’s hers…”

 

“Who? Your French teacher?”

 

“No, no, I mean, yeah, she’s an asshole who can’t do her job pop-pop-poro…”

 

“Properly?”

 

“Exactly, but this, Macco, this is not her. The blame lies solely on... Signora Tequila.”

 

“I understand completely. Now, this time, please stay there, by the toilet. I’m getting a bowl to put by your bed.”

 

“Are you making soup for me? Macco?”

 

When Marco returns thirty seconds later, there is no toilet roll on the holder. It’s all been chucked onto the pool of sick, along with Marco’s washcloth.

 

“Ermal, what the hell is this?”

 

“Cleaning. You’ve done enough tonight for me, s’my turn to help”

 

“That’s lovely Ermal, but you know what would be awesome if you could do it for me?”

 

“What?”

 

“Get into bed and go the fuck to sleep.”

 

“Get to bed, and fuck the go to sleep.”

 

“Precisely”

 

Grimacing, gagging and groaning, Marco manages to clean up Ermal’s mess. When he returns to the bedroom, Ermal’s nowhere to be seen. Marco heads into his own room to find Ermal lying down, tucked up very comfortably in Marco’s bed, the sick bowl (thankfully empty) on his head.

 

“Okay”

 

Marco doesn’t protest, he just turns to leave, to sleep in Ermal’s room when-

 

“MACCO!”

 

“Jesus, I thought you were asleep!”

 

“No...I’m not.”

 

“I know that now.”

 

Ermal doesn’t say anything, but pulls up the duvet and pats that side of the mattress. Marco sighs and walks over, climbing in beside him. Ermal turns into a koala and cuddles Marco tightly, smiling widely.

 

“Mamma Macco”

 

“That’s right. Now go to sleep”

 

“Sorry, ‘bout the, you know, sick...I didn’t mean to.”

 

“I know. It’s ok.”

 

A few minutes pass and then Marco feels the wetness on his shoulder. He fears the worst and immediately sits up, grabbing the bowl, before he realises that Ermal’s not throwing up, but crying.

 

Drunk Ermal is a bit of a nightmare to look after, but Marco would assume the duty of babysitter every night if he had to. He knows his friend wasn’t coping well with failing his French oral exam and then being told he had to retake it. Ermal had put everything into that test, revising every night, and had failed by two marks when his teacher added a random topic into the exam, one that he had never seen before. It was unfortunate, and Ermal hadn’t chosen the best way to deal with the result.

 

“Hey, hey, Ermal, why are you crying?”

 

Ermal goes unusually quiet and barely whispers:

 

“I want my mama”

 

“Ermal, where’s this come from? You’ve not been homesick once since you got here. What’s happened?”

 

Ermal looks up at Marco with wide, earnest eyes and proclaims:

 

“Stuff.”

 

“Ok, stuff has happened, we’ll talk in the morning, ok? We’ll discuss this stuff and try to work it out, alright?”

 

“Then beat up Mrs Mortana”

 

“Whatever you say, Ermal, now come on, lie down, let me tuck you in, there we go, nice and warm, the bowl’s there if you need it, now can we please go to sleep?”

 

Ermal’s already snoring.

 

-

 

“In the prison?” Ermal asks, a frown on his forehead. “I mean, work is work, but, I don’t know, Marco…”

 

Marco sits opposite him, an encouraging smile on his face.

 

“You’ll be fine, Ermal. If you’re worried about the prisoners, most of them just want to do their time and get the hell out of there. They won’t try anything funny. Since I’ve worked there, no guard has been badly hurt, except the one who crashed his motorbike into the fence when trying to do a wheelie on the way home.”

 

Ermal smiles at the anecdote but then takes a deep breath, his hands trembling slightly.

 

“What if it reminds me of him?”

 

Marco doesn’t ask who ‘him’ is. He knows. 

 

Taking Ermal’s hands into his own, he promises: “Then you can leave, and, of course, I will let you. But please, think about it. It’s a good wage, and I know the hours aren’t nice, but it’s a job. You can stay in Milan. You can earn some money for a better apartment, and get some good skills under your belt if you want to apply for a different job later on.”

 

Ermal swallows. The thought of spending all day locked up behind a barbed wire fence, surrounded by muscular giants who could snap him in half, alarms him, and sets him on edge a little.

 

“I’ve done the job myself, Ermal, before I was promoted. You’ll be fine, I promise.”

 

And before he can back out, Ermal nods. He can’t spend another month printing off CV after CV, visiting every workplace he can find, being told to fuck off, there’s nothing for you here, or worse, sit in an interview, see the friendly smile from the employer, then have his hopes dashed when he gets rejected once again. He can’t go back home, totally broke, and confess that he worked so hard to go to university, for nothing. He can't. He won't. And now, thanks to this opportunity, he doesn't have to.

 

“When do I start?”

  
  



	3. This Is Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciao raga! Here is the latest chapter, the longest so far (whoops)...
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and please leave feedback, be it complimentary or constructive criticism!
> 
> Love you all <3
> 
> (By the way, the quote at the start is from Oscar Wilde, a fantastic man that this world- and my country- wronged.)

Chapter Two- This Is Reality

“One of the many lessons that one learns in prison is, that things are what they are and will be what they will be.”

January 22nd, 2008

It’s late afternoon when the van finally arrives in Milan, and the sun hides itself behind the skyline, peeping through to give the January day’s last sunshine to its city. The man sat in the dilapidated van, it’s once-pristine paint now peeling off, rests his head on the window, his eyes on the world that passes by. His final sight of it for the next eight years.

At some point, the van passes a school, where parents arrive to collect their children. Some carry their children on their shoulders, others hold their hands as they prepare to cross the busy road. A mixture of sadness and guilt washes over his pale face, but there are no more tears. He can’t. If he cries now, everyone will be able to tell. And the last thing he wants is to be earmarked as a weakling by a bunch of violent, murderous criminals.

\------

March, 2002, Rome

Fabrizio wipes the sweat off of his brow, slowly descending the ladder, one hand tightly clutching the rungs, the other holding a bucket full of tools. Finally, the roof is mended and the customer can stop barking orders at him. Yes, I know there’s a giant fucking hole in your roof. What? You want me to fix it as soon as I can? No, you have to be joking, my plan was to stretch this job out over three months just to spite you.

After taking the money from the ungrateful bastard, he walks out to the car, depositing his equipment in the boot before sitting in the driver’s seat. Before he sets off, he goes to call his boss, to tell him that he can take a new job tomorrow, and he’ll drop the money round then from today. That’s when he sees it.

14 missed calls, all from Giada.

“Shit.”

He immediately dials the number, pressing the phone to his ear, tapping the wheel with his fingers to stop them shaking uncontrollably. 

“Fab?”

“Hey, what’s wrong? Sorry I couldn’t call back, I was on a roof.”

“It’s not urgent. Well, it is, but don’t rush, nobody’s hurt or in trouble, but just come home as soon as you can, ok?”

“Of course, sweetheart, do you still want me to go to the shop or not?”

“No, just come home.”

“Alright, I’ll be as quick as I can.”

‘Home’ doesn’t mean their own house, or flat. It means her bedroom in her parent’s house, in the wealthier suburbs of the city. They’d only met two months ago, on a bitterly cold, grey morning. Fabrizio, not a fan of early mornings, hadn’t concentrated when setting up the ladder and had been keen to get his first job finished quickly so he could get back in his car and out of the cold. He was halfway up, bucket in one hand, car keys in his mouth (there was a hole in his coat pocket) when it had happened. The ladder jolted and then collapsed, the frost on the ground taking away its ability to grip the ground. He managed to fall on his side, thankfully out of the path of the ladder, which came crashing down with an impressive clang. 

Pushing himself to sit up, he clutched his arm which had taken the most damage. It wasn’t broken, but it didn’t look exactly right, and the throbbing pain in his elbow wasn’t encouraging.

“Oh my god, are you ok?”

A girl pushed open the gate, entering the garden, rushing over to crouch beside him, offering a gloved hand. Looking up to meet her gaze, he saw that she was simply beautiful. Even when her brow was furrowed in concern, and her cheeks were flushed, there was a natural glow to her, and her compassion seemed to give her a natural warmth.

“Y-yeah, I should be, don’t worry about me.”

“Your arm looks bad.”

“Huh, it’ll be fine when I stretch… ah, perhaps not…”

She shook her head, her hair flicking slightly this way and that, as she gathered his tools and returned them to their bucket, organising them neatly.

“Thanks.”

“So, are you going to see a doctor, or am I going to have to drag you to one?”

“No, I’ll go, you probably need to get to work, or university, or...somewhere else. I’ll be ok.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, a hint of worry in her voice, or was it disappointment?

“Of course, I’d hate to screw up your day.”

And with that, she said her goodbyes and walked on her way. Bizio sighed, following her with his eyes until she disappeared from view. It wasn’t until he went to pick up the bucket, to go to finish the job before noon, that he saw it. A piece of paper, weighed down by the hammer. On it was a single name, followed by a series of numbers. 

Giada.

They haven’t moved in together yet, or even said those three words, but he likes her well enough, and she seems fond of him, so they’ve agreed to see each other and see what happens, to take it slow…

Valentine’s day a month before didn’t count, they’d decided. So maybe he’d invited her out to a nightclub in lieu of an expensive dinner he could never afford, and maybe they’d both drank far too much for a Thursday evening, and they may have ended up stumbling into Giada’s bedroom when they finally got home. Clothes, torn off, had been thrown onto the pristine floor, the blankets and cushions had been roughly cleared away to make space, and both were thankful that Giada’s parents were in France for the week as the bed creaked under their movements, as sighs turned into shameless moans…

Bizio smiles at the memory. Afterwards, he’d held her close, pressing kisses onto her forehead, as she whispered that she’d never been with a man before and how glad she was she’d waited for him. It didn’t matter that they were drunk, they’d never forget that night.

He knows that for certain when he walks through the door, up the stairs, tiptoeing past the kitchen where the parents are making something for dinner, to find her sat on her bed, tears running down her face, with a positive pregnancy test in her hand. 

“Fuck.”

“For gods sake, Fab, you couldn’t say anything more comforting?”

“Shit, I’m sorry, I just-”

“My parents will kill me, they barely even know you and-”

“Hey, hey, come here, it’ll be ok, we’ll work something out…”

The words may be soothing, but they lack any conviction or confidence. He has no idea what on earth to say, to do, to think… His father had been in his thirties before ever facing this situation, and here Fabrizio was, holding his pregnant girlfriend in his arms, at the age of 21. 

He’s never felt more scared.

\----

He turns his eyes from the window to the front of the van, a tremble running through his fingers as he dares to ask:

“Sir, can I make a phone call when we get there?”

“Shut the fuck up, inmate.”

And he does. Is that to be his name for the next eight years? Inmate. One of thousands who live out their days behind barbed wire fences, dreaming of freedom as guards manhandle them, order them around, leave them behind at the end of the day when they go to enjoy their freedom…

They must have been driving for at least three hours now, and a new concern buries itself in Bizio’s head. How often will he be able to see his children? It feels too selfish, too greedy, to ask Giada to drive them up at every opportunity when none of them have done anything wrong, when all she will do is sit and watch the father of her children, her ex-boyfriend, play with them, try to act as a parent for the fraction of time he has with them…. No, it’s not fair to ask that of her. But is it fair for him to wither away behind bars while his children grow up, his youngest daughter almost unaware of his existence? Of course it is. He broke the law. He’s a criminal. They’re innocent.

The van stops for a moment as the driver leans out of the window to speak through an intercom. The guard with the gun sees Fabrizio look around, curious to know what’s going on, and states, matter of factly:

“We’re here.”

The gate swings open, and Bizio takes one last moment to look at the city, at the people, the birds pecking at the crumbs, the sky… Then they drive through, the gates closing with an almighty thud. The car drives up to a large door, where the engine shuts off. 

“Follow me. Don’t cause any trouble.”

Glancing up at the building, he sees the dirt on the walls, the faces at the windows, looking down on him, surely regarding him as their next meal, their prey, their bitch. Two guards stand on the courtyard smoking. They each have tasers, handcuffs, and a baton in their waistband, and the way they smirk at his shudder sets him on edge.

“Hey”

Turning to identify the source of the noise, Fabrizio sees a man cleaning one of the windows on the ground floor. He’s wearing a beige vest with similar coloured trousers, a number pasted on to the front breast-pocket. His wide eyes are deep brown, twinkling in the setting sun, and his arms are tattooed- is that Jimi Hendrix on his arm? What grabs Fabrizio’s attention the most, however, is the smile on his face.

It’s not a jeer, or a sly grin, but a genuine smile that brings out his dimples. Still, Bizio doesn’t linger on him for long, still on edge at the way the smoking guards haven’t stopped staring at him once.

“Shut up, inmate.”

“Roger that, daddy”

And at that, Bizio fully swivels, stopping in his tracks, completely stunted by the inmate’s audacity. The way the guard he addressed wonders over to him, baton in hand, does nothing to allay his fears for the man. Then he approaches closely, mumbles something indecipherable, and pats the inmate on the backside with the weapon. The other guard laughs heartily- “Mengoni, you’re terrible”- before putting out his cigarette. The prisoner turns to Bizio, a blush spreading over his cheeks.

“They may seem like dicks on the inside, but everyone was new here once, and they won’t bother you if you don’t bother them. If there’s any trouble, you find me, understand?”

“Get a move on, Mobrici, I haven’t got all day.”

And before he can answer, he’s bustled through the door, into a dusty looking corridor, where a slim guard with short curls and a faint moustache looks up.

“Fabrizio Mobrici?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“Brilliant, I can take it from here.”

And the guard from the van walks off, slamming the door shut behind him. The guard motions for Fabrizio to follow him to an office. For a few moments, the guard fills in forms, taps a keyboard and radios somebody to meet him at the processing unit. Then he walks over, removing the handcuffs.

“Shit, those guards had them on tight.”

“Um…”

“Nevermind. I’m Vigentini, and you are?”

“Fabrizio.”

“Right, Fabrizio, come with me, we’ll get you all set up.”

They go to an empty room, where another guard joins them. 

“This is Montanari. We’re not allowed to process new inmates alone, procedure etc.”

Bizio nods, not really absorbing the information. 

“Right, now strip off, we’ll get your uniform sorted.”

“Here?”

“No, on the roof. Yes, here.”

Fabrizio toys with his laces, his hands trembling. He half expects the men to turn around while he undresses, then realises that that isn’t happening. Deciding to get it over and done with, he strips quickly, standing before the two men.

“Boxers too.”

“What?”

“Don’t get shy, we’ve seen hundreds before you. We need to check you’re not smuggling any- oh for god’s sake, wait a minute,” he pauses, fishing out his radio from his waistband.

“Mengoni, get Eugent away from the window please.”

Bizio turns, covering his body with his arms as best he can, to see the window cleaner scamper away from the window, bucket and cloth in hand.

“That’s the third time this month he’s done that.”

“Hey, Mobrici, quit delaying, you’ll just make it harder for everyone, we don’t have all day.”

Fabrizio doesn’t think about his actions, he just pulls down the boxers, looks at the ground to avoid their gaze, closes his eyes when they ask him to do the dreaded ‘squat and cough’, then puts on the underwear they give him as quick as he can.

“There we go, that’s the worst bit done. Now what size will you need?”

A short while later, Bizio’s wearing a prison suit that’s slightly too big for him. It’s scratchy and the material is thin, but he’s clothed now, at least. Vigentini grabs a tag from the table in the corner and fastens it to the breast pocket. Number 3339.

“Just going to take you to see the doctor now, all routine procedure, then you’re good to go.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Fire away.”

“My children. Can I call them tonight?”

“Not until we sort out your commissary account, I’m afraid. Shouldn’t take more than a day, though, then you’ll be all good to go.”

Part of Fabrizio is grateful for Vigentini’s calm nature, but the other half of him is unnerved. He’s about to enter the prison, he could be made into mincemeat by the other men, how on earth can anybody be calm right now?

As he arrives in the medical ward, a doctor wanders over, clipboard in hand. After taking some routine details- name, blood type, injections he’s had- he grapples to take Bizio’s arm, tracing his fingers over the red bumps there, covering the faded white scars. After deciding they’re not infected, he nods at the guards to take Fabrizio to the main corridor. A blonde, slender man is waiting there, arms crossed.

“Enrico, this is Fabrizio Mobrici. Show him his bunk and explain the rules. If you need anything, go to Montanari’s office. He’s on duty today.”

“Wait...Mobrici?”

“What’s wrong, Enrico?”

“He needs another name. We’ve already got a Mobrici in Dorm C.”

“Fine, you sort that out, I need to sort out his commissary account.”

And with that, Vigentini turns and leaves.

“Right. Let’s get going.”

Enrico shows him the cafeteria and explains that meals are at the same time every day, the food isn’t that bad since they got a new head chef, but it’s where most fights start. The room is empty, but Enrico wanders over to the kitchen, poking his head around the corner.

“Chef?”

“What’s up?”

A tall man, with short brown hair covered by a hairnet, walks over, his hands covered in flour.

“Got any scraps? I’m showing the new guy around.”

Fabrizio holds his hand out to shake the man’s hand, then drops it, giving a small nod instead.

“I’m Francesco, but Frankie’s fine. What’s your name?”

“Mobrici. Um, Fabrizio Mobrici.”

“Alright, Mr Bond,” a smile grazes the man’s face as he reaches to a tin on the shelf opposite them, pulling out two biscuits. “Here. Just don’t tell the others or they’ll be mayhem.”

And with that, he returns to his counter, rolling out some pastry with a rolling pin.

Enrico takes him to the bathroom outside of his dorm then, and Fabrizio takes in the dirt on the floor, the wetness overflowing from the shower cubicles, the smell, oh god, the smell…

“These are the best ones in the prison, don’t look so disgusted, principessa.”

“Don’t call me-”

“Whatever. I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.” But as they exit the bathrooms, Enrico takes Fabrizio into a small closet, pulling out his arm to inspect the markings. 

“I thought as much. Look, consider this a present to help you through your first day. If you want more, we’ll discuss payment. Don’t worry, you’ll be well looked after so long as you honour your debts.”

And he thrusts a small packet into Bizio’s pocket, wrapped in a wad of tissue paper. Before Bizio can protest, Enrico drags him outside, leading him into a large dormitory.

The room is divided into two halves, separated by a small walkway. Each side contains seven cubicles, separated by small walls, around two metres high, and in each cubicle, there are two small beds. Enrico leads him right to the end, to the cubicle on the left, and the bed right against the wall. It’s unmade, and the springs in the mattress are easily visible. Before he can ask who his bunkmate is, Enrico has disappeared. The dormitory is largely empty, with the prisoners evidently being at their jobs or classes, and Bizio takes a moment to sit on the bed, his head in his hands, breathing in, then out, then in, then out again.

His belongings from the van have been placed on the bedside table, and have clearly been rummaged through. Thankfully, nothing is missing, but Bizio bristles at the way the photos of his children have been scattered carelessly in there. He takes them out, holding them in the palm of his hand, looking at those smiles, at Libero, all smart in his uniform on his first day of school, Anita lying in a hospital crib, just an hour old, tucked up in a little blue blanket.

He has to survive. He has to get out. For them. Not for anybody else, but for them.

He’s interrupted from his musings when a guard- Mengoni- storms into the cell, looking him up and down. Did he lick his lips? Does he know about the package? Was it a trick?

“You were supposed to report to me.”

“I’m sorry, Enrico left, I didn’t-”

“Ok, kid, I’ll tell you the first rule of prison. Don’t rely on anyone to sort out your shit for you. You’re a grown man and you’re responsible for your actions. Don’t neglect them.”

“Understood.”

“Good. Have you registered for any work here yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you don’t get a choice, I’m afraid. We need a cleaner, and that’s what you’ll do.”

“Sure.”

“Respect. I like it. Now, dinner is in an hour, the other guys will be back soon. Don’t cause any trouble for me, and I won’t have any reason to be cross with you. Another rule: don’t make us guards cross. It won’t end well.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re getting good at this, I see. I don’t think we’ll have to worry about you getting in any trouble anytime soon.”

“Sir...a question?”

“Go on.”

“Can I put pictures on my wall? Just of my children and some rock bands, nothing else.”

“Be my guest. Oh, come to the head guard’s office tomorrow after breakfast. He’ll sort out your account and job and shit.”

“One more thing?”

Bizio wants to tell him. To hand the package over there and then. Montanari was right earlier: delaying the inevitable only makes it harder to deal with. Get rid of the package and get withdrawal out of the way. 

But he doesn’t.

He’s never felt more alone as he feels now, and if the only friend he has in this hellhole are drugs, he knows he won’t be able to give them up for long. He’ll just keep it hidden, just for later, in case…

“The window cleaner outside. What’s his name?”

“Eugent Bushpepa. Your bunkmate, as a matter of fact.”

Bizio’s glad and nervous at the same time. Glad the roommate seems a decent man, was friendly earlier, didn’t look like he wanted to eat him alive. Nervous that the man would soon realise what a fuck-up Bizio was, and toss him aside. He looked like trouble, confronting guards and sneaking up to watch men strip through windows. The showers could be hell…

“And he’s probably had sex with half of this prison by now, so don’t feel special.”

And with that, Mengoni storms off, red in the face, fists clenching and unclenching.

Now all Bizio can do is wait. Hope the men in his dorm are nice, hope Enrico and his connections and his packets of powder aren’t anywhere too near, hope the account gets sorted quick so he can talk to his children, the only people keeping him sane…

He sits. And he waits. He looks at the dusty floor, the walls, the bed, the ceiling, and he waits. This is to be his fate for the next eight years. Waiting. Contemplating. Fearing. 

Lying back, he takes a deep breath.

This is reality now.


	4. Chapter Three-Welcome to the Relative Boredome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CIAO RAGA! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the third instalment of this AU. We'll be meeting another character here, and getting to know the prison alongside Ermal.
> 
> POTENTIAL TRIGGERS:  
> -Child abuse in a school setting (Full notes at the end, avoid the section beginning St. Amador's Institution and you'll be fine)
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy, and please leave feedback (it fuels the writer to write faster!)
> 
> Baci per tutti xx

Chapter Three- Welcome to the… Relative Boredom?

 

**“I knew the first time we met, you’d be a hard man to forget.”**

 

_5th February 2010_

 

“Ej, Mama!”

 

“Ermal?”

 

As he paces up and down his bedroom nervously, he can practically sense her smile and stand up straight in excitement at the sound of his voice. It wasn’t that he didn’t call often. At least three times a week, sometimes more, very rarely less. However, their calls are usually in the evening, at that time when the dinner has been cleared away and everyone is languishing around, taking in the late hours before preparing for bed.

 

It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, and Ermal’s just got back from Marco’s house. The first thing he did on his return was grab his mobile and dial that familiar number, permanently etched into his memory.

 

“How are you today?” he says, deciding on whether to give her the news based on her response. If she’s happy, he will. If she’s not, he’ll wait. She needs to be in the right headspace for this announcement.

 

“I’m just fine, darling, is everything ok?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m not too bad…”

 

He tails off, allowing his mother to lead the conversation. In moments of silence, mamas always know the right thing to say. Or to not say. Sometimes mutual silence, both parties quietly reflecting, in a way that prevents loneliness but isn’t overbearing, is needed.

 

“Ermal, why are you calling me this early?” she asks, no annoyance or concern in her voice, just curiosity. “Of course I don’t mind, but you usually call in the evenings. Has something happened?”

 

“So I have good news and not so good news”

 

“The bad first.”

 

“No, it won’t work, mama, I need to do the good first. You’ll understand.”

 

“Ok, caro, take a breath and tell me the good.”

 

No hysterics, no panicked breaths, no urgent appeal to ‘just spit it out’. She allows him time, space and the chance to choose the right words. For a moment, he considers throwing the new job away and going back to Bari. He’s missed his mum. Her words of wisdom, her gentle hugs, her soothing voice over mugs of steaming tea as he pours out everything on his mind…

 

“I’ve got a job.”

 

“That’s amazing, Ermal! I’m so relieved, especially now that I don’t need to beat up that landlord of yours anymore.”

 

Ermal chuckles softly, waiting for the inevitable question.

 

“Where is it? Is it a linguistics-based job?”

 

“No, mama...it’s-it’s in a prison. As a guard.”

 

Sinking onto his bed, he presses a shaking hand to his mouth, dreading her reply. The silence that follows is not a nice one, he can feel her anxiety, her concern, through the device and it only increases his own.

 

“Ermal...I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

 

After an hour of reasoning, arguing, pleading, she finally concedes defeat. Of course, she would be worried. Having fled the violence of one man, one man who had bruised and bloodied an entire family, forced them to flee their home country to be safe, she thought he was finally protected from those forces that tormented him as a child. And now, he’s going into a prison, full of vicious, cold-blooded thugs. He’s not muscular, strong, or intimidating at all. What if they swallow him up? What if one of them stabs him? What if, what if, what if…

 

\--------

 

_7th February 2010_

 

Where the hell is Marco?

 

Ermal stands on the street corner by his apartment block, arms wrapped around himself in a desperate attempt to contain some form of warmth. Marco was supposed to pick him up ten minutes ago, and he’s going to be late, and he’ll get fired on his first day, and-

 

“Taxi service for Monsieur Meta?”

 

“I wouldn’t be giving you a tip, cabbie Macco, we’re going to be late!”

 

“No, it’s fine, we’ve got plenty of time,” the older man assures him, smiling excitedly. Well, it is a fun day for him, his best friend coming to work in the same place he does. Ermal, on the other hand, feels like he could throw up with anxiety, due to the fear of the inmates or the pressure of not fucking this golden opportunity up.

 

“No, Ermal, stop pouting, we’ll be fine, I promise,” Marco says, patting Ermal’s knee gently, trying to calm the younger man.

 

After plugging in his seatbelt, he pulls out the newspaper clipping crumpled up under the seat.

 

‘Notorious drug kingpin repeatedly stabbed to death in Milan prison courtyard’

 

“Macco what the fuck?”

 

“Jesus, Ermal, put that away, you’ll freak yourself out.”

 

“Why the hell didn’t you mention this? Stop the car, I want to go home, I can’t do this.”

 

“Ermal, breathe with me. In, two, three, four, hold it…”

 

With his head in his hands, Ermal reluctantly follows Marco’s commands, until his breathing has settled down somewhat.

 

“And, to reassure you, no guards were injured whatsoever that day.”

 

“Brilliant. My fear of being repeatedly stabbed to death by a fucking mass-murderer under my watch has been completely vanquished.”

 

“Ermal, look at me.”

 

He glances across the car to face Marco, whose gaze alternates between Ermal’s eyes and the road ahead.

 

“No guard has been hurt the whole time I’ve been at San Vittore. Not a single one, except those clumsy enough to fall down some stairs and bruise their ass. You. Will. Be. Fine.”

 

Ermal’s not convinced, but he’s no longer hell-bent on going back. He’ll see today through. One day at a time. He’ll be ok. Hopefully.

 

\------

 

There are no humongous gates or iron bars. Were it not for the barbed wire fence and CCTV cameras every few metres, it would feel like a regular car park. Marco explains that staff don’t use the front gate as they leave the car, after Marco reminds Ermal to pick up his sandwiches from the glove compartment.

 

He takes a breath, straightens his shirt and pushes his curls out of his face before Marco opens the door to the break room, where the guards have meetings, eat lunch, and rest in between their shifts. Will he be the smallest? Will it be like primary school, when he’s always eating alone in a corner, blocked out from their conversations? Will they hate him for being there because of his friend’s connections, and not of his own merit?

 

“Morning guys” Marco says, smiling as he walks into the room. All eyes look up to meet his, the men under his command smiling at their chief-but-one. A chorus of ‘morning’s and ‘hello’s fills the room, most of the guards fixated on their caffeinated drinks and chatting idly amongst each other.

 

“This is Ermal, or Meta as you’ll call him in front of the inmates. I’m going to show him around, then Roberto, you’ll supervise him in Dorm B while he learns the ropes. Is that ok?”

 

There are no objections. No voiced objections, anyway. Ermal goes around the room, shaking hands and trying to remember names. There was Roberto, Emiliano, another Marco, three Andreas- Vinnie, Andrea and Randrea (his surname was Ra but they couldn’t call him Ra-Ra in front of the inmates, much as they found it hilarious). And Macco. Of course, there are other prison staff there: doctors, guards not working that day, office staff etc. Ermal doesn’t think he’ll ever get his head around them all.

 

“Come on, Erm, let me give you the grand tour.”

 

An arm around his shoulders, and he’s whisked away.

 

Marco explains that there’s four main dormitories, where most inmates sleep, and two separate blocks. One is for new inmates who are difficult to process for one reason or another, one is for troublemakers who need to be kept under permanent watch, where they can’t misbehave. Then there’s the medical ward, where a few inmates wait for a doctor, only one bed in the ward being occupied. The man lying there looks as frail as a piece of paper, eyes wide in awe, yet his facial hair is perfectly trimmed. He indicates the IV drip attached to his arm and meets Ermal’s gaze.

 

“It’s Italy’s highest quality heroin, this. Want some?”

 

Confounded by the strong Russian accent, Ermal frowns in confusion: “Sorry?”

 

“No? Then quit staring, asshole.”

 

“Hey, that’s Meta to you, inmate.” Marco’s authoritative voice emerges. “On another note, have you eaten anything today?”

 

“...I’ll think about it, maybe.”

 

And with that, he turns on his side, facing away from the two men. As they walk through the next corridor, Marco explains.

 

“That’s Bilan. A tough one to crack, and he’s pretty hostile to us guards. The doctor thinks he’s starving himself in protest to be transferred back to Russia, where his potential boyfriend lives.”

 

“Will he get to go back?”

 

“He tried to import a kilogram of cocaine into the country and got caught out by a sniffer dog. He’s not going anywhere until he’s finished his sentence.”

 

“I see.”

 

“Come on, the library’s just here. You’ll like it, it’s full of languages books. They’ve got a pretty big Albanian section.”

 

And Ermal finds himself feeling a sense of attachment to the room, with its dusty books and quiet serenity. Some inmates are poring over law books, scribbling notes down. Others browse the fiction books, whilst a few sit in silence, enjoying the opportunity for calm reflection.

 

Until a rather petulant, Spanish-sounding voice breaks the silence. Ermal doesn’t quite catch what’s going on, but when Marco tells the man to ‘be quiet’ and ‘take it up with the duty-guard’, Ermal panics. Is the man going to become violent? What if there’s a razor tucked in his uniform somewhere?

 

“Jesus, Sobral, what on earth is the issue?”

 

“The issue, kind of you to notice, is that some pervert in this prison evidently has a bible kink, or got a little too excited at the word virgin in The Gospels, Luke, and-”

 

“I don’t have all day, please-”

 

“There is seminal fluid. In the bible. And we think it’s fresh.”

 

“And this couldn’t have possibly waited until later?”

 

“No. I can’t use my desk, because no way in hell am I touching THAT, and I can’t check out or return any books for anyone, and they’re all gonna get cranky, which could cause a fight, and-”

 

“Fine. Get a plastic bag from the kitchen, put the book in there, and I will sort it later.”

 

“Can’t you just bin it? It’s disgusting. Look, if someone steals it again, and sleeps with it under their pillow, which people do because they’re weird, then they could catch lice from it, and unless you want a prison-wide outbreak of pubic nits, I suggest you nip this problem in its moist, cum-filled bud.”

 

“I think you’ll find we can’t just bin it. It’s contaminated with bodily fluids and needs to be disposed of as hazardous waste.”

 

“As an atheist, I thoroughly second that sentiment. A nice extended metaphor for religion as a whole, really, don’t you think?”

 

“Now go and get that bag, and give me a second’s peace.”

 

And with that, the librarian wanders off, a content smile on his face. Ermal can’t help but notice how slow he walks, and Marco must have read his mind.

 

“That’s Salvador Sobral. Quite a sweet little shit, really, he just never stops talking.”

 

“I gathered.”

 

“He works in here because he can’t do anything strenuous- some heart condition, he’s waiting on a transplant but it’s not looking that likely in the near future. Plus, he’s one of the only intelligent, educated inmates we’ve got.”

 

\--------

 

_St. Amador’s Institution for Boys, Portugal, 2001_

 

“Salvador Sobral! Did I not see you talking with Joseph just now? Well, boy? Answer me!”

 

The professor’s voice cuts through the silence in the room like a knife, making every boy flinch and turn their heads towards the man’s victim. Salvador takes in a shaky breath, looking up to meet the teacher’s stern gaze.

 

“No, sir. I think you’ll find you heard me talking to Joseph.”

 

Silence, except for a few muffled gasps. It’s not the first time Salvador’s answered back, but it’s the first time any boy has challenged Professor Santos, a giant of a man, with strong, muscular hands, a deep voice that rattles the bones of any boy on the receiving end of it, and a known skill for administering harsh blows with the cane, never failing to tear skin and draw blood.

 

“Stand up.”

 

Santos’s voice is deathly quiet, and the tension in the air is increasing with every second that passes, the man and the boy locked in a fierce, unspoken battle. Salvador stands up, wraps his gown around his shoulders tightly, puffing out his chest and raising his head as high as he can. He will not lose his dignity to this professor. He will emerge victorious. With his already broken body, he has nothing to lose, and he knows it, even at just 14 years old.

 

“Come here.”

 

Every eye is glued to him as he takes slow, measured steps towards the blackboard. His heart is thumping like wild, but he ignores it. It won’t beat him today, he’s decided.

 

“Now, explain to us all why you deemed it appropriate to disturb my lesson with your idle conversation. In the meantime, I will prepare the cane.”

 

Fear shines from the eyes of every boy in the room, except the one preparing to receive punishment. None of them particularly like Salvador, a good few despise him for reasons he fully understands, yet the act of caning, the brutality of the strike, the cries of pain from the poor misbehaving wretch, is enough to instil terror into their very hearts.

 

“I refuse to apologise for disturbing your lesson. The formula for the quadratic equation was written incorrectly on the board, and I was merely commenting to Joseph whether or not our incompetent professor here would notice at all.”

 

Eyes shoot to the board, and Salvador grins. He’s right. He knows it. The teacher must be embarrassed, blushing, trying to spot his mistake, and feeling like a total fool. Salvador has beaten him this time, regardless of who gets caned.

 

“Salvador, whilst your parents may be wealthy enough to curry favour with the governing board, their money has not corrupted my opinion. You know full well that were it not for your personal health circumstances, and your parents’ extremely generous contributions to this institution, that you would have been expelled by now. You have an excellent mind, that is true, but it is unfortunately wasted on a terrible attitude. Now, bend over.”

 

“Please, Sir, may I be so bold as to say one thing?”

 

“Make it quick.”

 

“Whilst yours has a pleasant shine to it, Professor Pereira’s cane is bigger.”

 

A glance at the professor’s trousers, concealed by the pompous gown everyone in the institution is forced to wear.

 

“Marginally so, I’m afraid, sir.”

 

\-----------

 

Marco walks Ermal up and down the dorms, and between the beady, dark eyes, Ermal is unable to distinguish one man from another. They’re all predators, eyeing up their next meal, working out how easy it will be to snap his bones in half…

 

One walks out of his bunk, gently tapping Marco on the shoulder.

 

“Excuse me, sir?”

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Niccolo accidentally dropped the box of herbs this morning, and all the jars smashed. Please, can you order some more?”

 

“Tell him to be more careful next time, but yes, I’ll put it through this afternoon.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

“Oh, Francesco, Salvador needs to see you in the kitchen. You should probably head down soon.”

 

The brown-haired man turns on his heel, concern written all over his brow.

 

“What’s happened? Is it his heart?”

 

“No, he’s fine, and I’m sure he’ll give you a full account of this morning’s bible incident, gory details and all.”

 

“I’ll go and find him, then.”

 

And, after smoothing out his hair, wiping his face and brushing his uniform down, Francesco hurries off.

 

“Herbs? You’ve got money in the budget for that?” Ermal asks, incredulously.

 

“Before Francesco came here, we did not have a good chef. You do not want to be dealing with hundreds of hungry, cranky prisoners. If herbs makes the food decent, and keeps them from fighting each other over chocolate bars, I will personally ensure the budget covers them.”

 

“Good thinking.”

 

Finally, Marco takes Ermal around the bathrooms, cafeteria and laundry room. Ermal hasn’t seen the whole prison yet, but has a firm grasp of the basics. As they walk to Dorm B, Marco notices the pained look on Ermal’s face, the discomfort clear in his eyes.

 

“Ermal? You ok?”

 

“Doyouknowwherethestafftoiletsare?”

 

Marco laughs, relieved that that’s all Ermal’s worried about. Pointing him in the direction of the Dorm he’ll be working in later, he shows Marco to the loos.

 

“So, you can get your own way back?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine.”

 

“You won’t be on your own for a few days, there’s no need for any worries, ok?”

 

“It’s not what I was expecting.”

 

“Oh?” A curious smile from Marco.

 

“They all seem so normal.”

 

“They are. They’re just folks like you and me who took a wrong turn somewhere and broke the law. They won’t hurt you, just annoy you to death sometimes.”

 

“Thanks for getting me the job.”

 

And Marco steps forward, pulling Ermal into a gentle embrace.

 

“You deserve it. You’ll be great. I’ll see you later, ok?”

 

“Bye, Macco.”

 

As Ermal washes his hands, splashing his face with cold water, and pulls his hair into a loose bun, he smiles. He will be ok here. There are no men with knives, drug wars, gangs roaming the corridors...just men doing their time, asking for fresh herbs and ejaculating on bibles. What’s the worst that could happen?

 

As Ermal walks to the dormitory, he pulls his shoulders back, raises his head, trying to look somewhat authoritative. He almost jumps out of his skin when he hears a deafening crash behind him. Running over, he sees the overturned bucket, the broken mop, the water making a huge mess on the staircase…

 

At the bottom of the steps, a man tries to stagger to his feet and fails. He swears under his breath, and when Ermal slowly walks down the steps to help him up, the man looks up, and Ermal catches sight of his number.

 

**3339**

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE POTENTIAL TRIGGER:  
> Salvador answers back in class and the teacher prepares to cane him with a stick. The act of caning is not described, but caning, in general, is referenced in this section.


	5. Chapter Five- Not So Secret Admirer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciao, raga! Hope you're all doing well, and I have to apologise for how late this is. (University is a lot of work, let me tell you)
> 
> Hope you enjoy the chapter, and please leave comments! They honestly make my day!
> 
> Triggers: Drug use in this chapter. Skip the flashback section if that affects you.

Chapter 5

 

**“If you judge people, you have no time to love them.”**

 

It feels like an eternity before the dormitory starts to fill up with inmates returning from their work. Fabrizio remains on his bed, lying on his side. Does he introduce himself, or wait for them to approach? Prison etiquette is a complete mystery to him, and he doesn’t want to risk making a mistake and becoming somebody’s punching bag, or worse…

 

“Knock knock.”

 

He cranes his neck to look at the cell’s entrance. Leaning against the wall is a young man- he looks like he should still be in school- with wide eyes, a mischievous glint in them, and a smile that could be fake or genuine. Fabrizio hopes it’s the former.

 

“Hey.”

 

“So you’re the new neighbour, then. I’m Salvador, and no, you may not call me Sal, Salvo, or any variety of that. I’m not telling you what I did and you don’t have to tell me either. So don’t ask. Another thing-”

 

“Jesus Sal, give him a chance to speak, for god’s sake.”

 

The chef from earlier has wandered up to lean on the other side of the wall, giving the smaller man a playful pat on the arm. Salvador doesn’t seem to mind the nickname but crosses his arms with a dramatic sigh and pouts:

 

“Don’t get mad at me now. You know I have a broken heart.”

 

“You’re exceptionally lucky not to have a broken face, the way you speak to people,” Francesco mockingly scolds, before looking at Fabrizio, eyebrows raised as if waiting for him to speak.

 

“I’m Fabrizio.”

 

“Nice to meet you properly. I’m Francesco, as you know.” While saying this, he walks over to loosely shake Fabrizio’s hand. He gestures at the photos taped to the wall and asks:

 

“Those your kids?”

 

“Are you actually thick, Frankie? Of course they’re his kids. Either that or he’s some kind of pedo-”

 

A glare from the chef shuts him up instantly.

 

“They’re my children, yeah,” Bizio murmurs, to break the silence, if nothing else. “Libero is five and Anita is one.”

 

“How many years did they give you?”

 

“Eight.”

 

“Shit, that’s rough.”

 

Francesco doesn’t pry further, but wonders into the room, evidently to get a closer look. Bizio’s about to ask what he’s doing when he feels a hand dart into his pocket, and the package is swiped away.

 

“It’s not what it looks like,” he begins, stuttering over the words and reaching over to try and grab the package, but Francesco throws it to Sal before gently pushing Fabrizio back to sit on the bed.

 

“That’s a Fab-rication if I ever did hear one,” Salvador chuckles, before noting the death glare Frankie is sending him.

 

“I’ve just become overwhelmed with the urge to make contact with my estranged parents and am going to walk somewhere far away now.”

 

The situation would have been comical had Fabrizio not been terrified of being handed over to the guards, of now having to go through withdrawal, of blowing the little commissary money he had on packages from Enrico…

 

“Ok.” Francesco takes a deep breath, sits on the bed next to Bizio and looks directly ahead, whilst Fabrizio hangs his head low. “I presume drugs are what landed you here?”

 

“Basically.” His voice is barely above a whisper, he’s had this conversation a million times. Variants of it, anyway. Same concept, different drug. Same fuck-up, different victim. The same moth, burned by a different flame.

 

\-----

 

**January 20th, 2008**

 

“Simone? Come on, I know you’re in there!” He bangs on the door, almost knocking it off its hinges, yet he won’t leave until he’s been sated. Every cell in his body itches with withdrawal, and the pressure in his head threatens to crush his skull. Sweating, shivering, swearing, he remains on the doorstep. Finally, after four muscle spasms (the left arm this time), the door opens and a tall, wrinkled man gestures for him to come in.

 

“Now you know what a bitch it is to be made to wait.”

 

“Sorry, I’m s-sorry.”

 

“You better be. Next time you disappoint me you freeze to death on my porch before I let you in.”

 

“I know, I know.”

 

He absentmindedly rubs the crook of his elbow with his fingers, nails digging into the broken skin. It’s been two days, and he feels the lack of heroin as though it were oxygen. Without it, his body shuts down, his mind becomes tortured, his desperation magnifies...

 

He’s texted Giada to say that there was a problem with the car, so he’s staying at a friend’s house in Milan. The non-existent problem costs €100 to fix, and he’ll be home tomorrow, and give his love to the children.

 

Were his whole body not crying out for relief, he’d be consumed by guilt. He knows he should be at home, helping Giada with the dinner, rocking Anita to sleep and asking Libero about his day. Instead, he’s sat on the grimy hallway floor, begging his dealer to be merciful and give him something- anything- to end his torment. 

 

How the fuck had he gotten this bad? 

 

Probably shortly after Anita was born. Giada had had to give up her job for a year to look after her, and the money Fabrizio was making was not stretching far enough to cover everything, and since the financial crash, nobody had money to renovate anymore which meant no work, and Giada had had to ask her parents for money to pay the bills, and try as he might, he couldn’t do it, it was too much, too much labour for too little wages, too much work for too little time with his family, and when his former dealer had invited him over for a ‘chat’, he’d been too weak to say no.

 

Giada must be starting to see through the lies now. It’s the third time this week he’s had to unexpectedly stay the night at a friend’s house. The third time he’s not come home to be a proper boyfriend and father. The third night he’s failed as a boyfriend, father, son…

 

“God, you’re in a state.”

 

“I know, I just need-”

 

“You got the money?”

 

Hand shaking, Bizio hands over the crumpled note. Simone unfolds it, notes the specks of white, and scoffs.

 

“So much for customer loyalty, eh?”

 

“I was out of town. I was needy. I’m sorry.”

 

Simone says nothing but reaches into his coat pocket, grabs the syringe and hands it over without a word. He also gives a number of packages with various numbers on, all to be delivered. Bizio knows the risk, but if he didn’t perform these errands, the price of his sanity would be tripled, perhaps even quadrupled, and he couldn’t be so selfish to deprive his family of his entire paycheck. Or maybe he’s too frightened that they’d find out. He doesn’t know, and pushes the thought away before it crushes him.

 

“Now get the fuck out.”

 

Bizio leaves immediately, eager not to anger the man further. He doesn’t look before crossing the road but keeps his eyes firmly directed in front of him, hands plunged into his pockets, fingers tracing the outline of the syringe to remind him that an end to his torment is nigh…

 

The public toilets are by no means sanitary- that would usually cause him to turn around and continue searching, but with his broken body threatening to turn on him at any moment unless he gives in to his cravings, he walks in. He heads into the first stall, locks the door, and immediately scrambles to take his coat off, to prepare the syringe.

 

The moment when the needle comes into contact with the skin feels like heaven, like the first breath after being underwater for too long, the first sip of ice cold water on a scorching day in the Italian summer. He doesn’t feel the skin tear when he plunges the needle through it. His body is accustomed to it now, and he doesn’t flinch or hiss in pain anymore. Rather, he closes his eyes, lets his head falls back, and presses the plunger down, slow enough to be torture yet fast enough to prevent any of the precious liquid being wasted. 

 

And then the euphoria- or was it relief- washes over him, gradually. He feels the effect of the drug, the way his body ceases its torment of him, the lessening of the aches, the relaxation of his limbs. 

 

Later that night, euphoria would become hell when the policeman caught him. But in that moment, on that filthy toilet seat with the cold penetrating his entire body, he’d never felt more blissful.

 

Looking back, it would have been a sweet death indeed.

 

\-----

“Hey, hey, it’s ok.” Francesco rubs an arm on his shoulders, looking away when he hastily brushes the tears forming in the corners of his eyes. 

 

“So, you’re gonna be going through withdrawal these next few days then?” Francesco asks calmly, eyes glancing at the fairly fresh spots on his arm. All Bizio can do is nod, the lump in his throat blocking any words he could possibly want to say.

 

“Have you been through it before?” Another slight nod. “Tell me what your symptoms are. I’m gonna help you through this.”

 

“Why?”

 

He can’t help the question that involuntarily escapes his lips. Surely people like him are the scum of the earth, they shouldn’t be granted sympathy, they should be left to rot before they harm society further…

 

“I want you get clean. For us in the dorm. For your children. For you.”

 

Bizio sits up, and finally brings himself to look into the man’s eyes. It makes sense now. Everyone in this place is a criminal. Nobody can judge another in the same predicament as them. They all fucked up, they all lied, they all know what it’s like.

 

“I get sick. I tend to throw up a lot, get flu-like symptoms and lots of anxiety. I don’t know, it might be different, that was for cocaine.”

 

“Ok. I’ll sort out a bucket for your cell and an extra blanket.”

 

“What do I have to do for them?”

 

Francesco stands up and begins to walk out of the cell. He looks Bizio straight in the eye, a stern expression on his face and just says:

 

“Stay clean.”

 

\-----

 

“Any news?”

 

“Yes, I walked right up to him and asked what type of dick he liked, to which he gave me wonderful detailed answers. Your marriage is tomorrow and I’m your best man.”

 

Salvador and Eugent sit at the library’s desk. It’s technically closed, but neither man has any intention of going anywhere. Sal nibbles on a biscuit, swirling around on the swivel chair (another broken-heart benefit, as he called them) as Eugent perched on the desk, legs swinging slightly.

 

“Come on, do I have a chance?”

 

“Of course you do. Zero is always a possibility.”

 

“Very funny, Salvador.”

 

“Now that’s not a happy face.”

 

“Would you be happy if Mr Sex on Legs waltzed into your very bunk and then proceeded to be a celibate heterosexual with no interest in reciprocating your burning desire for him?”

 

“Would you be happy if I told him you said that?”

 

“You wouldn’t…”

 

Salvador broke into a wide grin, eyes narrowed at the Albanian. “Try me.”

 

“I didn’t even get to see him get strip searched. This is a terrible day.”

 

“Oh! I remembered- he has kids. There were pictures on his wall?”

 

“Kids? Oh fuck off, that’s not fair.”

 

“Poor Eugent. Shall we arrange a funeral for your sex life? Frankie can make Pastel de Nata.”

 

“Given that you’re a virgin, we should probably sort your funeral first.”

 

“Very true, this heart isn’t meeting anyone’s standards anytime soon.”

 

“For god’s sake Sal, must you joke about that?”

 

“Sorry.”

 

There’s a slightly uncomfortable pause, broken only by the sounds of Salvador crunching the biscuit and Eugent pacing up and down the rows of books.

 

“Wait! I remembered!” Sal springs up from the chair, and immediately regrets it when his heart pangs and forces him to sit back down. “There was not a single picture of a woman on his wall. No woman on the scene as things stand.”

 

Eugent smiles, and his eyes light up like a child’s on christmas day. 

 

“Did he mention anyone aside from the kids?”

 

“I may not have had the chance to make that inquiry…”

 

“Sal…”

 

“-vador. It’s not Sal to you, remember? No, Frankie sent me out of the room when I sort of may have implied that your future husband was a pedo-” He tails off here, and Eugent buries his face in his hands.

 

“How have you not been murdered yet?”

 

Salvador shrugs.

 

“Might it be because of your relations with the most powerful inmate in this prison?” he leans on the desk, pulling Sal’s chin to look him in the eye when he tries to shy away.

 

“No, me and Matteo, we- we’re just friends…”

 

“I’d love to be just friends with my new bunkie, if that’s what we’re calling it now.”

 

“No, Eugent, he’s, it’s…”

 

“You guys kissed yet? Held hands?”

 

“Not guilty, your honour.”

 

“Then what the fuck are you doing, Salvador? You guys have been flirting for fucking years, man.”

 

“And I have 12 more left in here to kill, so maybe you’ll forgive me for taking it slow. Not that you know the meaning of that concept.”

 

“Whatever you say, darling virgin. I’m off to seduce the new inmate before someone else tries to. Enjoy celibacy.”

 

\-----

 

Frankie doesn’t stay for too long, needing to head off to prepare for dinner. As he leaves, he bumps into a smaller, tattooed man. Eugent. His neighbour. 

 

“Hey, I’m Fabrizio.”

 

“Eugent. Nice to properly meet you.”

 

Bizio offers a hand for the man to shake, but Eugent chooses to pull him into a hug instead, and his hand remains on Bizio’s back just a little bit too long for comfort. Okay. This is going to be interesting.

 

“Sorry. Too much?” There’s a blush on the man’s cheeks, and he pulls away to sit on his own bed, his leg bouncing slightly.

 

“A little.” Bizio honestly answers, looking down at his own lap. Trying to divert the conversation, he indicates the man’s arm.

 

“Jimi Hendrix, huh?”

 

“Yeah, I got that a few days before I was arrested. Kinda the reason I’m here, but long story. How are things?”

 

“Erm…”

 

“No, I know it’s all shit right now what with being in prison, but what’s going on in your head? I’ve been there, believe me, if you wanna talk.”

 

“What other music do you like?” That question is more normal. It feels like a conversation between two friends, not two prisoners. It flows, and he prefers it that way.

 

Eugent just smiles from the bed opposite the room, and indulges him. Their questions slowly meander back to prison life, when Fabrizio asks:

 

“Do you get to make many phone calls?”

 

“Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t have anyone to, y’know…” He gestures with his hand, and Bizio immediately apologises.

 

“Is it for your kids?”

 

“Yeah, I want to hear their voices, know they’re ok. It’s...complicated, I don’t know.”

 

“I get that. So, you’re married then?”

 

Smirking at the way Eugent averts his eyes after saying that, cheeks blushing a deep crimson, he answers:

 

“No, me and their mother officially separated after the first relapse. Just tried to keep going for the kids really, but here I am.” And mentioning them brings back all the memories he’d tried to suppress. The way Libero loved to sit next to him and cuddle as they watched football together, the time he’d whined and whined that he’d wanted to try Papa’s beer only to recoil in disgust at the bitter taste, the way he’d rested Anita on his lap, giving her a bottle of warm milk as Libero played with her hair…

 

“Shit, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

 

Eugent’s sat up now, and Bizio realises he’s crying. He apologises and rolls over, gathering his breath and trying to stem the flow of tears. 

 

“I haven’t seen my parents since I was twelve. I’m sorry if I seemed insensitive.”

 

And that’s when Bizio realises just how wrong he’d gotten this man when he first judged him. Of course he’ll seek attention, be it negative or positive. Of course he’ll act promiscuous if that means somebody will give him human contact. Of course he doesn’t know how to act around people if he’s had no example to follow. 

 

“It’s ok. I just need some time.”

 

“I’ll leave you be for a bit. I’ll be in the communal area if you need me.”

 

Dinner passes rather unceremoniously. Eugent chatters about various inmates, providing some amusing anecdotes. Salvador contributes occasionally, with obscene facts and scandalous rumours. The man sat next to him curtly introduces himself as Matteo, then says nothing more throughout the dinner, except occasional whispers to Sal. He finishes his meal earlier than Sal (who has been too busy talking to eat) and then rests a hand on Sal’s shoulder, tracing gentle patterns onto the beige suit. Towards the end of the meal, Sal rests his head against Mateo’s shoulder, eyes drooping shut.

 

“Eugent, sort out our trays.”

 

“Sure.”

 

And with that, Mateo rises from the table, a protective hand around Sal’s waist as he leads him out towards the dorm.

 

“Something going on between those two?” Bizio asks when they clear the table.

 

“There must be. They deny it, but I don’t think I’m convinced by the ‘just friends’ mantra…”

 

“Are there many couples here?”

 

“Couples- barely any. But in terms of people going gay for the stay, you’ve probably got half the prison.”

 

“Shit, that’s a lot.”

 

“I mean, I was gay before the stay, so I can’t really comment.” A nervous laugh accompanies Eugent’s statement.

 

“Fair enough. Bisexual myself.”

 

Fabrizio pretends not to notice the way Eugent’s ears prick up at that comment. 

 

A few moments later, they finish their meals and carry the four trays between themselves to the rack. Frankie wonders out of the kitchen, sweat on his brow, peeling the gloves off of his hands.

 

“Is Sal alright? He’s not usually that tired at this time.”

 

“Yeah, he’s fine…”

 

“Eugent?” A raise of the eyebrows.

 

“We may have had a somewhat animated chat in the library before tea. Must have worn him out a little, maybe...”

 

Eugent looks at the floor guiltily, playing with the cuff of his sleeve.

 

“Come on Eugent, you know better than that.”

 

And with that, Frankie walks out of the hall, concern etched all over his face.

 

“Love triangle?” Fabrizio asks hesitantly as the two men walk out of the canteen.

 

“For Frankie’s sake, I hope not. Matteo is...not a nice man to have as an enemy.” Eugent lowers his voice and checks over his shoulder, as if he’s afraid the man will suddenly materialise behind them.

 

“Do I need to keep a lookout?”

 

“Just keep to yourself. Leave him to his business, and there shouldn’t be any bother…” Eugent leans in to practically whisper into Bizio’s ear.  “And whatever you do, never accept drugs from him. He’ll turn against you when it suits him at best, and dispose of you for posing a threat to his business at worst.”

 

“I don’t plan to.”

 

“I’m glad to hear it.” A genuine smile from Eugent, his dark eyes glistening under the artificial lights in the corridor. “Because he will no doubt try to ensnare you. He’s the only dealer on our dorm, you see.”

 

“I see.”

 

“You in here for drugs?” After a nod from Bizio, he continues: “Right, I’ll get Sal to keep him busy when you’re withdrawing. That’s exactly when he’ll pounce on you, when you feel the need the most.”

 

“You in here for drugs too?”

 

“Sort of. Never used, but worked for dealers.”

 

“I used and worked for the higher ups. Got caught. Now I’m here.”

 

“No, I was thrown under the bus by my boyfriend- huge kingpin in Milan with an empire all over the country. As an Albanian, I was the perfect scapegoat. Turns out all my documents were fake. Now I’m here.”

 

“Shit. That’s horrible. I’m the only reason I’m here really. My addiction, my desperation, my mistakes…”

 

“Nobody wants to be here. It’s ok. I have a bed, three meals a day, a roof over my head. Don’t have to pretend to be someone else, or solicit grimy looking men to survive.”

 

An awkward pause follows before Eugent smirks.

 

“Now I fuck on my own terms, and for pleasure alone.”

 

Then they reach their dorm. Before going in, Bizio peers into the opposite bunk. Francesco sits on his bed, scribbling numbers on a clipboard. Salvador lies on his side, practically asleep, Matteo softly stroking his hair. Frankie eventually decides he can’t stand anymore of their tenderness and crosses into the bunk opposite.

 

“You guys doing alright?”

 

Eugent just smiles in response as Bizio mutters a soft ‘yeah.’ He notices a bucket and ragged blanket stuffed under his bed, and turns to thank Frankie, when:

 

“Don’t mention it. Eugent, you wake me if anything happens tonight.”

 

“I mean, I’m always up for a threesome, but shouldn’t you ask Bizio?”

 

Fabrizio almost chokes on his own saliva, cheeks burning a deep crimson. It doesn’t help that he’s currently shirtless as he changes into a softer outfit for sleeping in. 

 

“Joking, joking,” he smiles as he undresses himself. Bizio isn’t convinced by that.

 

“Is Salvador ok?” he asks, as a way to hastily change the subject.

 

“He’s just tired after over-exerting himself.” A cross glance at Eugent. “He’ll be fine tomorrow.”

 

“What’s wrong with him, if I can ask?”

 

Frankie sighs, looking slightly towards the ground when he answers. 

 

“It’s his heart. Never been a hundred percent, really. He needs a transplant, but as things stand…” A slight pause. “It doesn’t help that Matteo’s all over him. I’ve told him time and time again that he’s trouble, but Sal won’t hear it.”

 

“How did they get together?”

 

“They aren’t together, just friends. And I don’t know the full details, but Matteo took a liking to Sal on his first day, and of course Sal became attached to him. It’s a long story, but Sal was basically disowned when he got sent here. He had nobody, then Matteo came along, and was the first to show him any kind of genuine friendship. You can fill out the missing pieces.”

 

“Matteo would never hurt him.” Eugent states. “Look at him, he’s fucking enchanted by Sal. He’s only a threat to those that threaten his business, Sal’s perfectly fine, I’m sure.” 

 

“I wish I could be.”

 

The conversation is interrupted when the lights suddenly dim down. Francesco turns to Bizio:

 

“That means curfew. You stay in your bunks until the morning bell, or you have to ask a guard for permission to leave. On that note, I’m off. Wake me if you need me, OK?”

 

“Thank you. I mean it, Francesco.”

 

“It’s ok. Night, Eugent.”

 

As he makes the bed, Fabrizio can’t help but notice the way Francesco slowly enters the bunk, almost like an animal afraid of being seen. Matteo pays no notice to the curfew, or Francesco’s entrance, and continues gently running his fingers through the man’s hair, whispering softly into his ear. Salvador’s smile proves that he’s still awake- just.

 

“Matteo, it’s curfew.” Francesco’s voice breaks up the moment. The blonde man slowly turns his head, and almost whispers, his voice is so soft…

 

“I’m aware. Thanks for the reminder.”

 

“I want to sleep, you need to leave.”

 

“I want to stay here, you need to mind your own fucking business.”

 

“Hey, hey, don’t fight, guys,” Sal’s gentle voice interrupts the tension, and he sits up slightly. “He can stay a little longer, can’t he?” 

 

And with that, he deploys his killer weapon, his wide eyes and runs his fingers along Matteo’s arm.

“If you want to get punished for it, be my guest. I’m going to try and sleep.” And with that, Frankie rolls over to face the wall. If Bizio sees him bury his face into the pillow, shaking slightly, he doesn’t comment. Matteo, meanwhile, moves to stand up, much to Sal’s dismay.

 

“Please?”

 

“You know the rules, baby, I have to go now.”

 

“What if we told them my heart was hurting and you were watching over me?”

 

A soft chuckle from Matteo, who bends down to kiss Salvador softly on the forehead. 

 

“I’ll see you in the morning, sweet. You go to sleep now.”

 

“Night, Mat.”

 

And with that, Bizio turns his eyes away, eager to avoid any dressing down from Matteo for getting involved in his business. 

 

“Want me to stroke your hair to make you sleepy?” A whisper from across the bunk forces Fabri to laugh. Turning over, he sees Eugent’s cheeky smile. 

 

“I’m good, but thank you.” 

 

“I never caught your last name.”

 

“Mobrici. Apparently, I have to change it, there’s another Mobrici in the dorm or something.”

 

“There is. He’s an asshole. You’re definitely the nicer.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

There’s silence, and Bizio thinks that Eugent must be dozing off, when he hears a whisper.

 

“Moro.”

 

“What?”

 

“Your last name. To match your eyes.”

 

“I’ll think about it. I just need to sleep now.”

 

“Okay, okay,  I’ll shut up. Night, Fabrizio.”

 

“Night.” And with that, Bizio turns to face the wall, not wanting to look into the man’s eyes any longer, yet fully aware that Eugent won’t be turning any time soon.

 

He likes the man, yes, but only as a friend. A human being in this building of monsters. Someone he can talk to about anything and nothing. That’s all. He’s not going to fall in love in prison. He’s going to do his time and get the hell out of there.

 

For his children. For his family. For himself.


	6. Chapter 6-Yearning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CIAO Raga! Hope you're all having a lovely christmas!
> 
> I've finally managed to push out the next chapter, decades after I promised it would be up (uni is a hell of a lot of work, unfortunately!), and I hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE leave a comment- they honestly make my day, and inspire me to write!
> 
> Also, triggers: prostitution, drug withdrawal

“This wet tear one day will be dried  
From the fiery kisses that you dreamed of  
At that moment the pain will stop

It will stop”

\---

_January 23rd, 2008_

“Morning, i bukur.”

Fabrizio opens his eyes, the unfamiliar texture of the mattress confusing him as to where he is. The blaring of a buzzer in the distance and the abruptness of the light forcing its way into his eyes jerks him out of his sleep. Then he sees the concrete wall, hears the conversations of the inmates preparing for his day, and the illusion of normality is shattered.

“Morning, what time is it?” He brushes sleep from the folds of his eyes and sits himself up on his bed to face his bunkmate.

“Far too early for me to function. Did you sleep well?”

“I slept. That means yes.” A soft smirk accompanies the response- he couldn’t remember how long he’d spent with his head in the pillow, muffling sobs and wiping tears, then tossing and turning before resigning himself to the fact that there was not one comfortable position in the bed whatsoever.

“Ready to officially become one of us?” Eugent’s smile is brights and his eyes twinkle in the morning light (artificial, of course, no sun penetrates the tiny barred windows in the corners of the room). He seems utterly unbothered by the fact that it is January and fucking freezing in the dorm, sat idly on his bed dressed only from the waist down.

“What do you mean?” Fabrizio asks, facing his own bed to focus on arranging the blanket neatly. Potentially he may be avoiding gazing at Eugent in that moment, at that shoulder length hair, those eyes that seem to see into your very soul, the toned muscles on full display…

That man is trouble, he reminds himself.

But if he isn’t simply stunning….

“You’re getting registered officially, getting your job and all the other fun stuff that comes with prison life.” Eugent chirps, thankfully now reaching over to grab a faded white vest. “But not until after breakfast, the guards are still fixated on their coffees for now.”

Peering out of his bunk, Bizio only sees one guard in the dorm, idly scanning the inmates and looking bored out of his mind. Salvador stands in the doorway of a bunk further up, laughing at something unknown to Fabrizio.

“Where’s Francesco?” he suddenly asks Eugent, surprised to see the cell deserted and pristinely organised so early in the morning.

“Kitchen. If I wasn’t so hungry for breakfast this morning, we could be having oh so much fun right now, you and me…”

Seeing the cheeky grin on Eugent’s face, Fabrizio decides to have some fun.

“I guess, though my fiance might just have something to say about that.”

And Eugent’s face falls, his smile droops and his eyes widen in disappointed shock, as he suddenly moves to pull on his prison jacket, covering his arms fully.

“Fiance?” A soft sigh. “Where’d you guys meet?”

“In the realm of your worst nightmares.”

“Huh?”

“Should have seen your face, you actually looked heartbroken.”

“You fucker! You had me there.”

And both men are now laughing as they exit the bunk together, slowing as they pass Salvador.

“Hey Sal-vador,” Eugent asks, hastily remembering, “Feeling better today?”

“I was just tired, it was nothing,” Sal quickly explains, “But yeah, I’m feeling alright this morning.”

“Do you wanna grab breakfast with us?”

“Sure.” A glance back into the bunk they’re hovering by. “Is that ok with you?”

The man grabbing his water bottle and other various items doesn’t turn around to look when he softly murmurs:

“We’ll meet them there. I need to talk about something with you first, baby”

And with that, Sal nods slightly and heads back into the bunk, as Fabrizio and Eugent walk on, Bizio sweating slightly, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“No way are they just friends. Sal told me yesterday they’ve yet to even hold hands.”

“I don’t know,” Fabri responds, “I’m not exactly feeling any love from Matteo.”

“Got much experience in that department, have we?” An indignant Eugent mockingly chides.

“A bit, but that’s a story for another day.” A pause. “How about you?”

Eugent looks away for a moment, and runs a hand through his hair idly.

“Let’s say no and change the subject.”

\-----

February 12th, 2002

It’s fucking raining. Again.

And Eugent has been pushed out of his usual sheltered patch, an old bandstand that’s falling to pieces, by a gang of youths who didn’t look like they were joking when they told him they’d skin him unless he fucked off out of their territory.

Buggers.

He’s sat on the kerb by a mall, now closed for the night. Who knows? Maybe a kind passer-by will give him a crisp banknote or a coffee. Maybe he’ll meet his guardian angel who’ll lead him to a warm living room with a roaring fire and his parents will rock him to sleep. Maybe he’ll bump into a millionaire and have an opportunity to pick some pockets containing solid gold bars.

Or maybe he’ll catch yet another cold and die.

Even the revving of motorbikes doesn’t alarm him anymore. The first night he’d been out on his own, every sound had sent a shiver down his spine, forcing him to twitch and shudder erratically, much to the amusement of the students passing by on their way to the night clubs.

He’d had his own fun later though, stealing the bank notes from their half open coat pockets as they tried to stagger back home after a few too many vodkas. Even when the bouncers became suspicious and told him to run along, there was only so far they’d go to berate a homeless kid, barely in his teens.

He celebrated his fourteenth birthday with a cigarette from a Polish tourist, and promptly decided that he hated the smell, taste, and choking sensation of it. Looking back, he’d been a fool to take it. He was lucky it wasn’t poisoned.

He’s seventeen now. Still fresh with youth- well, as fresh as a homeless immigrant living on the streets of Naples can be in winter- yet old enough to be good at his game. He’s an expert in petty scams now that he’s picked up the lingo, and experience has granted him the stealth of a panther when it comes to theft in its purest form. He knows it’s immoral, and that it won’t get him off the streets, and probably won’t buy him more than one meal a day, but it lets him survive.

Survive. That’s the last thing his parents had told him when they sent him away as a kid. You won’t survive back here. Never look back, and never lose hope.

He’s pulled away from his flashback to their last conversation by the bright lights of a motorbike swerving to halt on the road in front of the steps. When the helmet is removed, revealing a crop of short, brown curls and a small beard, he doesn’t need to stare to realise that the man is looking at him alone.

“Hey!”

Two options confront him. The first is survival in its purest form- flight. Don’t risk getting yourself abducted, stabbed or worse when you have legs that can help you to run. But it’s the other option that attracts him. It’s not to fight, although he’d give that a try if he had to, but to see what the man wants. He’s ran away all his life. From his homeland, from the ‘orphanage’ in Venice, and now this strange, handsome man is beckoning him closer.

And Eugent walks towards him. From now on, he decides who runs from him. He’s seventeen, not a helpless child, and it’s time he did something to help himself for once. Fuck selflessness. Fuck survival. It’s his life, and he wants to thrive, even if only temporarily.

“What’s your name, sweet?”

“My name isn’t sweet, darling. Want to guess again?” Preparing to fight or to be punched for such an insult, he’s surprised to see the man on the bike smile and lick his lips.

“Ok, how about I skip to the important part and ask how much a night with you costs?”

He’s never done this before, and he pushes the image of his mother and him in church to the back of his mind. He can’t wait around for a miracle forever. If a man’s offering him money and thus shelter and food, he’ll give his dignity to him. After so many years pathetically begging and stealing, he’s not sure how much pride he can say he still possesses. And after all, what does pride buy you? Food? A hotel room? Anything of any help to him right now?  
“What’s the offering price?”

“Fifty euros. How’s that sounding?”

“I’m tempted, but not persuaded.”

“A hard one to get, huh.” The man smiles, looking Eugent up and down once more. Eugent doesn’t think about how old he could be, or the men he might associate with. He’s not used to such attention from strangers but seeing this golden opportunity to make a living for one night, he plays the game.

“You see, I have to be careful, they say. Going into a job like this, how am I to know if I’m being sold too cheaply?”

The man smiles, revealing a golden tooth as he licks his lips.

“I’m Giuseppe.”

“Nice to meet you.” Eugent replies, reaching out to grasp the man’s hand, running his fingers from the tattooed wrist to his rough, bruised knuckles. When he lets go, Giuseppe takes a lock of Eugent’s hair in his fingers, idly twirling it and leaning close into Eugent.

“I can’t say I make this a hobby of mine, but when a guy like you stands in front of me, I find myself...intrigued.”

“Two hundred Euros. I’m yours until tomorrow evening.”

He doesn’t care whether they go to a hotel, apartment, trailer, he may have just clinched his accommodation for the night.

“Tell me your name, and we have a done deal, babe.”

A pause.

“It’s Ivan.”

And before the man can ask further questions, Eugent’s on the back of a motorbike, arms wrapped around Giuseppe’s waist, pressing his head against the man’s upper back and trying not to think about what the hell he’s going to do if this all goes horribly wrong…

\-----

January 23rd, 2008

Eugent sits opposite the table from Fabrizio, who idly picks at the cereal floating around in the grimy boal in front of him. He notes the tired lines surrounding his eyes, the beads of sweat on his forehead and immediately clocks what’s going on.

“You ok?”

“I will be, it’s just-” and Fabrizio tails off, pressing a hand to his mouth and closing his eyes tight as if fighting the urge to vomit.

“Should I get a doctor?” Eugent begins to panic, seeing how suddenly Bizio has gone from being talkative and prepared for the day to a man who looks like he should be in a hospital bed, with a nurse attending to him.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Fabrizio murmurs, his raspy voice barely audible. “It’s just what happens when, well, you dealt. You’d know.”

“Been through withdrawal before?”

“I’ve been using on and off since I was 15, not to mention all the booze on top.”

“Shit. How long you been using since the last detox?” Eugent asks, proceeding to carry on eating his breakfast, eyebrow raised in both concern and curiosity.

“I’ve been using heroin for almost a year now. It started after Anita was born, and-” he tails off, voice breaking slightly at the mention of his daughter.

“Hey, hey, you can call her today when they sort your telephone card, that’ll cheer you up a bit, hm?” And Eugent rests a hand on Bizio’s shoulder, gently squeezing.

The moment is interrupted, however, when Salvador and Matteo sit down on the bench beside Eugent, next to each other, just like last night.

“Morning one and all, what’s the story today?” A chirpy Salvador pipes up, as Fabrizio tries to hide his discomfort and meet the gazes of the three men opposite.

“You missed out last night, Salva-dear.” Eugent taunts, chuckling softly at the extremely put-out expression on Sal’s face. “Francesco, me and our new pal Bizio decided to get a little bit-”

“Don’t be fucking vulgar, Bushpepa.” Matteo’s voice cuts into the conversation like a knife, and Eugent immediately hunches over his breakfast, mumbling an apology.

“What’s wrong with your friend?” Matteo asks Sal, frowning as he looks Fabrizio up and down, an animal trying to establish whether another beast is friend or foe, predator or prey…

“I didn’t sleep well, first night, you know, just a bit overwhelmed with it all…” Fabrizio stammers, keen to avoid bringing up the topic of withdrawal with a dealer so nearby. One wrong move and he’ll be in the same position he was outside of the prison. Desperate, dependant and delusional. Only this time, the most powerful man in the prison will be controlling his every move like a puppet-master, ready to dispose of him should any problem arise.

“I see.” There’s an uncomfortable silence, and Eugent glances desperately at Sal, in attempt to convince him to appease the man, yet before he can take a breath, Matteo gets there first:

“Come to me if you need anything.” His voice is soft spoken and bordering on a whisper. He never once takes his eyes off of Bizio, but adds: “I trust Enrico helped you yesterday?”

“He did, but I...I want to end that habit. New leaf, you know?” Fabrizio struggles to maintain eye contact, Matteo’s bright blue eyes practically burning into his conscience.

“Well, that’s your decision.”

A sigh of relief from Fabrizio- hopefully Matteo understands that he won’t get anywhere forcing drugs onto him, that there’s no reason for him to take any interest whatsoever in a new prisoner…

“So I’ll be having that gift back then?” And this is the moment where time stops, Bizio feels a coldness spreading over his chest, his lungs constricting. He glances at Salvador for help- he was the last one to have the package, he must know where it is, right? Salvador, however, isn’t looking at him. His head has sunk down into his chest, and he’s clutching at his heart with one hand, the other reaching out to hold onto Matteo.

“Sal? Baby? What’s going on?”

Immediately, Matteo’s demeanour changes completely. He goes onto his knees beside Sal’s seat, taking one of his arms and pressing two fingers against his wrist. Other prisoners turn away from their food to stare at the scene, and another man, noticing the commotion, practically sprints towards the two men.

Francesco’s behind Sal in an instant, hands firmly clutching his shoulders and rubbing in slow circular motions.

“Breathe with the circles, Sal, you know what to do.” His voice is lower and more authoritative than Bizio’s heard before, yet there’s a small waver to it.

“It’s ok, baby, I’m here, you’re gonna be fine, I promise...” Matteo’s voice has the same high pitch and silky tone, but it’s now less similar to a Bond villain, and now more reminiscent of a father soothing a child after a nightmare. The way he holds Sal’s spare hand and cups the other arm around his body only makes him seem more protective of the younger man.

A few moments later, Sal slowly lifts his head back up, removing the hand on his heart to squeeze Matteo’s hand tighty. Francesco remains behind him, bearing Sal’s weight as he leans back onto him for support.

“Sal, are you back with us?” Frankie asks, before the younger man nods gently. “What happened?”

“I don’t know, my chest went tight, and I couldn’t really breathe, but I’m ok now, it’s all passed.” Sal looks crestfallen, and refuses to meet either man’s gaze.

“I’m taking him back to the dorm to rest.” Matteo states, not even acknowledging Frankie’s presence.

“He needs to sit there first a while, in case he has another-”

“He’s fine, Gabbani. He doesn’t need to be in the canteen right now, with half the prison ogling him like a source of entertainment.”

“With all due respect, Matteo, you don’t get to make that decision. It’s not your heart that’s-”

“It’s ok, Frankie. I want to go.” Sal interrupts the argument before it escalates any further, looking up at the chef with wide brown eyes. Frankie looks at him for a moment before gloomily saying:

“Fine, you do what’s best for you. I’ll pop by and see you later.”

“Thanks, Frankie. I promise I’m ok.” Salvador looks devastated, almost like a child who’s afraid of being scolded, with his wide eyes, slumped shoulders, and his hands that fiddle with the strings on his jumpsuit.

“Come on, Sal, let’s get you out of here.” And Matteo picks Sal up, one arm under his shoulders and another supporting his upper legs. “And all you fuckers stop staring. Now.” Immediately, heads turn back to face the tables and breakfasts, and not one prisoner makes a jibe or remark at the scene. Even after Matteo is gone, there’s a subdued atmosphere in the canteen.

“I want to kill that man sometimes,” Frankie sighs, sitting down at the bench beside Eugent. He breathes heavily, and his friendly smile has now transformed into a look of pure resentment.

“Sal will be ok,” Eugent interjects. “He knows his own self, and whilst Matteo’s reputation isn’t exactly squeaky clean, you didn’t see the fear in his eyes when he saw Sal like that. Whatever faults he has, you can’t deny Matteo cares for him.”

“Speaking of his reputation, has he tried to lure Fab in yet?”

“This morning. No time wasted. Still, he’s sticking to sobriety, and we’ve told him thanks, but not interested.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Fab, are you ok, pal?”

Looking up to meet Bizio’s gaze, both men notice the sweat on his forehead, the redness in his eyes from last night’s crying, and the trembling of his hands that he tries to hide by keeping them under the table.

“Don’t worry about me,” Bizio stammers, “I’m ok. It’s just withdrawal.”

“Better to get it over and done with nice and early. Leave you to fully enjoy the rest of your sentence, hm?”

But Bizio doesn’t smile at Eugent’s joke. Rather, he leaps up, darts to the nearest bin and proceeds to vomit profusely, his stomach becoming totally devoid of the little food he’d taken in that morning.

“Well fuck me, this is the best day ever.”

“Hey Frankie, don’t worry, I promise your cooking isn’t that bad.” But Francesco doesn’t laugh in response. Eugent’s smile also seems a little too forced to convince anyone it’s genuine.

\---

 

The dorm is deserted when Matteo and Sal enter. Matteo has gone suddenly silent, yet continues to carry Sal until they reach Matteo’s bunk, where he lays Salvador down on the bed before lying beside him, a hand running through his hair.

“Sal?”

“Mmmm?” Sal, clearly tired, relishes the feeling of Matteo’s fingers moving softly against his scalp, the warmth of the man’s body pressing against him.

“Care to explain that little stunt you just pulled on us all?”

And Sal rolls over to bury his head into the pillow. He curses, at himself more than anyone else, for being so stupid to think Matteo wouldn’t notice the truth.

“What gave it away?”

“Sal, answer the question.”

“Please don’t be mad, I promise I-”

“How else do you expect me to feel when you scare the living daylight out of me by faking a potential heart attack?” And Matteo’s voice rises significantly, causing Sal to curl in on himself.

It’s not being shouted at or told off that upsets him. He’s had that all his life, from his parents, the school, the journalists, the lawyers… Matteo never shouts. Ever. He knows he’s in danger of losing the only man he thinks he’ll ever be able to love, and who stands a chance of reciprocating those feelings.

“Sal?” the voice has softened, as Matteo rolls Sal over to face him, wiping a tear from his face.

“Fabrizio gave me the package. I meant to give it to you, but then Mengoni started prowling around, and you know how he hovers around our bunks because of the thing he’s got going on for Eugent-”

“Sal, just tell me. I won’t be mad. I just want to know.”

“I flushed it. I panicked. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care about the package, Sal. I’ve lost countless drugs before, but that doesn’t matter,” his voice goes down to a whisper as he reaches over to pull Sal close to him. “Seeing you in pain, on the other hand…”

“I’m sorry…” Sal sniffles

“Do you know how frightened you made me, baby?”

There’s no answer, but Salvador nuzzles his face into the crook of Matteo’s neck, having no idea how to answer. He hates using his illness as a tool to get out of less than desirable situations, and seeing the faces of those around him, hearing Frankie’s voice threaten to break at any moment, he feels consumed by guilt, even though he acted in Fabrizio’s best interest.

“I won’t do it again.”

“No, no you fucking won’t, babe. You can’t do that to me, understand?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Good. You can tell me anything, you know, baby?” Matteo whispers, his lips pressed against Salvador’s forehead. “Promise me you’ll never keep anything secret from me, Sal?”

“I promise.”

“Good. Now I think you should sleep a little.”

“You’re not staying with me?”

“I have business, piccolo. I’ll bring you lunch later, ok?”

He disappears from view, and only when he is out of sight does Salvador whisper a soft ‘te amo’ after him.

\---

Eugent wanders into the toilets and follows the sound of retching to find the cubicle that Fabrizio is in. Knocking softly, he pushes the unlocked door open, and taps his shoulder. Fabrizio violently flinches, clearly frightened that the man behind him may be Enrico, of Matteo, or someone who doesn’t exactly want to be friends.

“Hey Moro, it’s just me,” Eugent says quietly, knowing that Bizio had complained of a headache as they walked to breakfast. When Fabrizio looks up from the filthy toilet bowl, Eugent hands him a bottle of water.

To say the man looks rough is a gross understatement.

Fabrizio looks like he’s dying, and probably feels like it too. His face is pale, eyes red, dark marks prominent underneath, and sweat now trickles down his face in droplets. His hands tremble wildly when he isn’t clutching something, and he looks like he might pass out at any moment.

“You don’t have to stay,” are all he manages to whisper before he bends over the toilet bowl once more, coughing up yet more bile. The force of the coughs leaves a sharp ache in the pit of his stomach and reduce his voice to a mere rasp. He looks back at Eugent when the episode is over, tears in his eyes.

“Can you get Matteo?” he asks, desperation etched over his face.

“Not a chance, darling.” Eugent’s arms are crossed, his face unusually stern.

“Please, Eugent,” Bizio practically begs, on his knees before the man, “I’ll do whatever you want, we can have a night together sometime, I’ll make you feel so good…”

“You’d make a terrible prostitute, Bizio, if that’s your technique.” A smirk, before he raises his eyebrows and repeats:

“My answer is still no.”

“Since when”- a cough- “would you know about technique, for-” A series of hacking coughs ends the sentence for him.

“How do you think this lone immigrant on the streets made a living?” Eugent looks at the floor now, struggling to face up to Bizio as he opens up.

“Shit. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was...nice to be noticed. Wanted. Gave me a sense of purpose, if nothing else…”

\-----  
February 13th, 2002

He’s lying in Giuseppe’s bed in his heated, sheltered, secure flat. There may be mess everywhere, but Eugent can’t complain. The bed is soft and oh so nice to sleep on, after months of breaking his back on hard concrete. Sure, there’s about fifty tablets, all in packages, on a table in the corner, along with a handgun and some powder on a set of weighing scales, but that doesn’t matter. That’s not his business.

Giuseppe has headed out to meet someone on the corner for a moment, and Eugent doesn’t want to go to sleep yet, not knowing whether he’s welcome to sleep in his client’s bed or whether Giuseppe wants him on the sofa, or whether Giuseppe will want to fuck him again before he goes to sleep himself. He doubts it, but it’s more polite to ask than it is to assume. That’s a lesson his father had taught him, and chastised him for many times.

It had surprised him- how easy it was to adapt to the new job he’s undertaken. He doesn’t know whether he can say that he likes it, but he can cope. Easily enough.

He had loved the kisses, Giuseppe pinning him against the door the second they walked in, one hand playing with his hair as he softly explored the younger man’s lips. The roughness with which he pushed him onto the bed, kneeling over him as he pulled Eugent’s hand to his crotch. Even though the name he moaned repeatedly as he came deep inside of him was ‘Ivan’, he relished the moment, and came shortly after, in the bathroom, as he cleaned himself up.

It had been so long since someone had held him in their arms like that, and if sex was the only way to feel so wanted, so protected, then he was willing to sell himself for it. Funnily enough, he hadn’t thought of the money since they disembarked from the motorbike outside.

Giuseppe lets him sleep in the bed, yet doesn’t cuddle up to him. Good. It’s easier that way. Or so he imagines.

The next morning, Giuseppe is up early, and is already dressed when Eugent wakes up.

“Off so early?”

“‘Fraid so.” The man replies, a cigarette in his hand, “Business as usual, unfortunately.”

“And what’s on the agenda today for you?” Eugent asks, curious more than anything else.

“Need to distribute these tablets, then get the next batch in for tomorrow’s deliveries.” He explains, gesturing to the table.

“Cocaine?” Eugent asks, eyes wide.

Giuseppe laughs, shaking his head.

“You really are new to this, aren’t you? No, these are ecstasy. The students love them so we’re taking advantage of post-exams celebrations.”

“Ah. Right.”

“How old are you, Ivan? You look even younger in daylight, I have to say, darling.”

“Eighteen.”

“Really?”

“In two months.”

“Shit, you’re practically a baby in this business. Take care not to get sucked in too far. This life will eat you up, spit you out and fuck you over, all at once, if you let it.”

“I’ll be careful.” And Eugent waits before asking a hesitant question. “Forgive me, but how old are you?”

“Thirty eight. Still on the lower rungs of this operation’s ladder though.” And the man now seems keen to leave, rapidly hiding the pills in hidden pockets in the sleeves of his coat.

“Are there....a lot of businesses like yours in Naples?”

“Not selling our secrets to our competitors, I hope?” One eyebrow is raised cheekily, and the man’s smile shows off the golden grids concealing his teeth.

“No, I’m scoping out my market.”

“Fair enough.”

And Eugent sits on the bed, slightly uncomfortable, yet also keen to know the answer to the question, thinking whether the life he lives is shit enough to justify selling his body on a more...regular basis.

“I mean, all sellers will carry extra money at all times...to bribe the cops. We all help each other out, I guess.”

“I see. You gonna be back tonight for round two?”

“Can’t. I won’t be here for a while now, got a lot of work to catch up on from last night.”

“Sorry. Well, I might see you again. You know where to find me if you want me.”

And with that, Giuseppe leaves, telling Eugent to put the keys through the door on his way out, and don’t go through the alley with the purple graffiti, as his friend was shot dead there last week.

Eugent’s glad Giuseppe’s gone. He’ll use the rest of the morning to have a shower and get cleaned up, then sleep until darkness falls onto the city again. Then, he’ll look for his next customer. The flat is luxury compared to what he’s used to, despite the price he has to pay for it. It’s easy enough to lie on a bed, bury your head into a pillow, and grit your teeth through the pain as another man fucks into you, seeing you as nothing more than a toy, a commodity to be used and discarded of when he’s had his fill.

It’s not exactly the life he’d envisaged. Nor the one his parents would have wanted for him.  
But he doesn’t care about that anymore. He doesn’t have the energy to, and if offering his body to criminals on the sly is the way he makes his living, gets a place to stay, secures himself a meal, he’ll pursue that path.

Because this is how he lives his life now.

And he can’t look back.

\----

January 23rd, 2008

After what feels like hours, Fabrizio feels totally empty, of tears, vomit, and the will to fight his cravings any more. Still, Eugent refuses to let him speak to Matteo, deliberately taking him the longer way back to his dorm. However, on the way, they are interrupted when a guard- in his blue uniform- blocks them.

“Mobrici?” the man asks, an irritated look on his face.

“This is him,” Eugent replies, an arm around the older man’s back, as he sways slightly on his feet, sweat trickling down his face.

“I’ve been searching for you for hours.” The guard states sternly. His arms are crossed in front of his chest, and his eyebrows are furrowed into a frown.

“S-sorry,” is al Fabrizio can mumble, struggling to get the words out properly given the roughness of his throat.

“And I believe you were due at work half an hour ago, Eugent?”

“Sorry. Family emergency.” Eugent replies instantly, the fact that he has no family in the country being ignored.

“Get there now. You’re lucky I haven’t fired you.”

And a split second later, Fabrizio finds himself on his own, in front of an extremely pissed off guard, in the midst of his withdrawal, and wishing he were anywhere else in the world at that moment.

“Didn’t someone tell you to report to me this morning?” the man asks, exasperated, as he begins to walk down the corridor, Fabrizio in tow.

“I- maybe.”

The rest of the walk is silent, until they finally reach an office door, where the guard gestures for Fabrizio to go in before following himself.

“So, you’re Fabrizio Mobrici?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. At least that’s something we’ve got right between us.”

A pause, before the guard looks up, making eye contact for the first time. His eyes are dark, as is his hair, which looks windswept and somewhat tangled.

“You can call me Montanari.”

He presses a few buttons on his keyboard, whilst asking:

“What’s wrong with you today? You’re not looking too well.”

“I-I think it’s a flu, or a maybe a virus-”

“Let me rephrase: how’s withdrawal going?”

Bizio opens his mouth to answer, then immediately regrets it when he vomits all over the carpeted floor, much to Montanari’s dismay.

It’s not the best first impression.


	7. Chapter 7- Strangers Temporarily...And Then?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CIAO!
> 
> Hi everyone, sorry for being away for so long. Good news- I have a month off uni now to focus on writing, so expect a few chapters these next few weeks.
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTE: Starting from this chapter, abuse is going to be highly prevalent throughout the story. I won't warn in future (unless people ask me to) but I just want to let you all know.
> 
> Aside from that, there are no triggers in this chapter.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy it- PLEASE leave a comment if you did! The more comments I get, the more inspired I am to write more ;) so make me happy and leave a lil note.
> 
> That said, I'll stop talking now, and leave you to enjoy the chapter :)

“It takes a moment to judge someone, but a lifetime to understand them.”

 

**7th February 2010, The Prison Corridor**

 

The guard doesn’t hover but rushes down the stairs to where the inmate lies, groaning and swearing under his breath. 

 

“I didn’t see you fall, but do you want me to help you up?”

 

“Cazzo…” he moans, rubbing his swollen elbow, “Uh, no, no, I’m fine.”

 

“I don’t believe you. Stand up and show me.”

 

It’s then that the inmate turns his neck to glare at the guard, before narrowing his eyes as he looks the man up and down.

 

“You’re...new.”

 

Fabrizio says nothing further- there are many words he could use to describe the man crouching down on the sodden staircase. Naive? The tussled, boyish curls hanging down around his face, almost covering up his wide, worried eyes. Unusual? No other guard would give a shit if a prisoner fell down a flight of stairs so long as he remained semi-conscious… then again, he is new. Beautiful? No. That’s not a good word. The guard is a professional member of the prison staff, and he is an inmate. Guards are not beautiful, they are off limits. They are not beautiful because they are not allowed to be beautiful. Not to him, anyway.

 

But those wide eyes…

 

“Yes, I’m new. And you’re clearly hurt.” Ermal tries to sound firm, yet inwardly cringes at the slight tremble in his voice, the soft, airy tone that doesn’t sound authoritative at all. 

 

It’s because it’s his first day. He has no clue what he is doing, and this man could be a mass-murderer eyeing up his next target. Of course that’s what this is...

 

“Just my elbow. And maybe my back...and head, a little.” The inmate manages to sit up and position himself on the bottom step.

 

“You’ll get wet there.”

 

“If you hadn’t noticed, I’m already pretty fucking soaked.” Fabrizio retorts, then immediately wishes he hadn’t said anything. Not only has he broken the prison rules by being rude to a guard, he may have also pissed off the only kind guard in this hellhole of a prison. But he hears a small laugh, glances at the new guard, and…

 

His smile. His eyes are almost closed, only a small twinkle peeping through, the curls bobbing up and down as he giggles, and the little dimples that form in his cheeks do not evade Fabrizio’s notice.

 

The guard is, quite frankly, adorable. Which bears the question: what the everloving fuck is he doing working in a prison?

 

“You’re looking a little dazed- I’m going to sit with you for a bit before we go to medical.”

 

Oh. Shit. 

 

“No, no, that won’t be needed. I- I just need to- to sit here a minute, I’ll be back in the room in no time.” Fabrizio stammers and stumbles, startled at the fact that he was staring at a guard, and simultaneously relieved that the guard hasn’t noticed.

 

Ermal doesn’t know what to do with the inmate. Does he walk him to the doctor, or does he go to B dorm to tell Roberto, or does he stay with the inmate here in case anything happens, or does he go and find Marco, or-

 

“Is this your first shift?” The inmate’s voice cuts into Ermal’s inner monologue.

 

“Y-yeah.” Ermal mumbles, and then adds, slightly dejected, “Am I doing this all wrong?”

 

Probably, Fabrizio thinks. Any other guard would have radioed a doctor and gone on their way to wherever they were supposed to be. Some poor bastard’s probably roaming the prison in search of the new guard, whose radio is currently on, but on zero volume.

 

“No, no, you’re fine, if anything you’re too good.”

 

“Really?”

 

“I mean, most guards wouldn’t give a damn if an inmate got hurt. You’re different, and it’s...nice.”

 

Ermal turns to look at the inmate properly. 3339. He doesn’t even know the man’s name, but he feels immense gratitude to him for being possibly the only person in this prison (well, besides Macco) to be bluntly honest, yet also so comforting. To believe in him, when he himself doesn’t.

 

The inmate smiles, before pushing his hair away from his eyes. Ermal should stop looking at him. He’s probably very dangerous, very evil, and not someone to admire at all.

 

Even if his gaze is captivating.

 

And his smile is inviting.

 

And his hair looks really soft.

 

And those upper arms look so toned and-

 

“We should get to the doctor.” He immediately cuts off that train of thought before it derails and takes his entire career with it on the first day of his job. “You’re looking a bit better.”

 

“I promise there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me.”

 

“And I insist you get checked over, just in case.”

 

He offers a hand to the inmate, who reaches up and takes it. His skin is damp from the floor, and his tattooed fingers intertwine with Ermal’s long bony digits. With his free hand, Ermal supports the man as he slowly gets back on his feet, a pained expression on his face. Ermal’s hand only rests on the man’s bicep for a second, and it’s only to help him stand up. Of course. 

 

They slowly ascend the stairs, Ermal’s no longer clutching the man’s hand, but has an arm around his shoulders to support him.

 

“What’s your name? I assume it isn’t 3339.”

 

The man laughs- well, giggles- and replies:

 

“Fabrizio. But people here usually call me Moro.”

 

“Fabrizio Moro.”

 

Fabrizio. Such a wonderful name to say, how the R rolls off the tongue, the way the sound travels to the lips to pronounce the Z. And it matches the surname so nicely- is that his birth name? It sounds Roman, yet maybe it’s from Milan. Then again-

 

“And you, stranger?”

 

“Um...Macco said that you call me Meta.”

 

“Macco?”

 

Damn. He’s never slipped up in public before with Macco’s nickname. Until now.

 

But he doesn’t think Fabrizio will mock him...he has an air of sincerity to him, or maybe Ermal’s being too trusting…

 

“Nevermind.”

 

“You’re blushing, Signore Meta. Is Macco a pet-name for a boyfriend of yours?” A cheeky smirk underlies Fabrizio’s question.

 

“God, no...”

 

“Wow, someone got defensive just then.”

 

“I will beat you with my truncheon if you ever tell anyone about this. And he’s not my boyfriend.” 

 

“Woah, woah, easy! I was just kidding,” Bizio mock protests, but both men are smiling at this point.

 

“Um...Fabrizio?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Which way is medical?”

 

“Not so high and mighty now, eh, newbie?” 

 

“One. It’s for your own good. And two, I need to get to B dorm soon or Roberto’s going to worry about where I am and I will be fired.” Ermal starts to ramble yet is cut off when Fabrizio bursts out laughing. “Are you concussed?”

 

“No, it’s just- you’re so cute, thinking you’ll get fired for something like that.” 

 

Oh god. He just called Ermal cute. 

 

No, he didn’t. He thinks that Ermal’s utter hopelessness at his job is hilarious yet is too nice to say that. Don’t think that way, Ermal. Don’t you dare.

 

“I’ll show you on one condition.”

 

“No, you’ll do it because I’m the guard and I’m telling you to.”

 

“Oh.” A dejected Fabrizio replies.

 

There’s a slight pause before Ermal starts laughing, causing Fabrizio to burst out into those giggles again. Really? Even Fabrizio’s laugh is adorable. How is this man in prison? 

 

“What do you want?”

 

Ermal expects to be asked for phone credits, chocolate, cigarettes, yet is taken aback when Fabrizio simply asks:

 

“What’s your first name, Signore Meta?”

 

After a few moments of inner deliberation- with one voice telling him there’s no reason why Fabrizio shouldn’t know his name, the other echoing Marco’s instruction that he mustn’t befriend the inmates, and the first mistake is to get too familiar with them…

 

“Ermal.”

 

“Ermal.” Fabrizio repeats, slightly rolling the R in his Roman accent.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“It’s Albanian, isn’t it?”

 

“Maybe.” Ermal fights every urge to look at Fabrizio in that moment, for fear of falling a little bit in love with him there and then. He knows about Albania- actually knows something other than immigration statistics and war tales from decades ago. Nobody else has made the connection so quickly...

 

“I’m not a stalker, don’t worry.” Fabrizio smiles, as Ermal looks away, his cheek turning ever so slightly pink- he bets the sight of Ermal blushing is too adorable. “My former bunkmate was Albanian.”

 

“Was he called Ermal?”

 

“Eugent. He got transferred last year though. Now I have a hormonal teenager who sulks all day, cries most nights, and tells me to fuck off whenever I ask what’s wrong.”

 

“That...doesn’t sound much fun. Anyway, here’s medical, so, I guess…”

 

“You don’t need to come in with me. It’s ok from here.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Positive. You should probably get to B dorm.”

 

“Y-yeah.” Ermal hovers for a moment as Fabrizio goes to enter the ward. “I hope your elbow feels better soon.”

 

‘I hope your elbow feels better soon.’ Really, Ermal? That’s your goodbye to the most beautiful man you’ve ever met in your life?

 

“Thanks. Sorry for making you late, I guess.”

 

“It’s ok.”

 

“You’ll be fine. Go to B dorm.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Go on, then.”

 

“...”

 

“Up the corridor, left, then right.”

 

“Thank you so much.” And with that, Ermal darts off, forcing himself not to look back at Fabrizio.

 

Fabrizio Moro.

 

He hopes to god the man isn’t a murderer.

 

He’d probably still like him anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

The dorm is fairly busy when Ermal enters, with inmates going from bunk to bunk, chatting animatedly, filling the time between the end of the morning work-shift and the start of lunch. Ermal grabs the handle of the door into the guard’s cubicle, a small room at the head of the bunk, but the door doesn’t budge.

 

And the inmates all watch and chuckle as he waits for Roberto to unlock the door to let him in. Great.

 

“Where on earth have you been?” the man asks, yet there is no anger in his voice. He seems to be occupied by a sudoku book, so at least he hasn’t been roaming the halls in search of the new boy. That’s something, at least.

 

“An inmate fell down the stairs. I took him to medical.” Ermal doesn’t elaborate further, not wanting to get himself or Fabrizio in trouble. Not that they’ve done anything wrong, but…

 

“Ah, I see. No worries, you’ve not missed anything.”

 

“What exactly do we do when we’re on duty?”

 

“If you’re watching a dorm or just stationed somewhere, not much,” Roberto says, shrugging his shoulders, “If an inmate needs something, point them in the right direction or try your best to help out. If an inmate breaks a rule”- he hands Ermal a small laminated manual- “give the appropriate sanction. Really, just keep things calm and ensure the ship runs smoothly.”

 

“Right.” Ermal is not at all reassured- what is the right direction to point an inmate in if something happens? Why didn’t Marco give him a rule-book earlier to study? What if an inmate won’t comply?

 

“Hey, don’t panic,” Roberto smiles, “You won’t be on your own til you’re ready, and you’ll learn quickly from us.”

 

“Th-thanks.”

 

“So Ermal, what brought you here?”

 

“Unemployment, mostly.” Ermal jokes in response.

 

“That’s a fair reason. You from Milan?”

 

“I live here now, but Bari is home, really.”

 

The two men engage in idle chat for a while, when a bell suddenly chimes over the tannoy. 

 

“The mealtime rotas are on the walls of the dorms. B dorm is lucky today, they get the early lunch spot.” After seeing Ermal’s puzzled expression, Roberto adds: “We have to give allotted times for things like meals, showers, phone calls, and visits or it’s too crowded to keep order. If there are too many inmates and not enough guards, health and safety, you know?”

 

Ermal peers at the inmates emerging from the bunks to head to lunch. He sees a grumpy looking youth with his fringe covering his eyes and smiles to himself- that must be Fabrizio’s bunkmate. He sees older men in their forties and fifties walking with boys who’ve probably only just left high-school. Most walk in groups, talking amongst themselves, some go alone. 

 

“Well, you’re not going to learn anything in here with me now. Go to the canteen for a bit, Mengoni will look after you.”

 

Despite feeling a bit like a child who needs to be babysat, Ermal complies easily, mostly due to boredom. Also, Fabrizio might be in the canteen, and he can see if he’s ok. 

 

Unfortunately, when he gets there, he cannot make out either Fabrizo or Mengoni- what did Mengoni even look like anyway?- so stands by the racks where the empty trays will be deposited, and tries his best to look authoritative. 

 

\----

 

“Pssst, Frankie,” a man behind the serving counter motions to the chef going to and from the kitchen area with trays of food. 

 

“What’s up, Luca?” the chef replies, his head peering around the door.

 

“New guard’s out on his own.”

 

“Where?”

 

Luca, a young inmate with a love of dancing, girls and chocolate, indicates the man standing next to the racks. Francesco hums in response. 

 

“Oh yeah, I saw Montanari giving him the tour earlier.”

 

“He’s…”

 

“He’s what? Dealing drugs? Converting you to bisexuality? Throwing food at people?”

 

“He’s...so small.” Luca responds, eyes narrowed at the man.

 

“Says you,” Frankie retorts, before adding cheekily, “He’s got at least a few inches on you, young man.”

 

“No, I meant...he’s fragile. Like he’s going to get trampled on. I feel like we should...maybe protect him somehow.”

 

“Beh, if he’s working here he must be fairly tough. Shout for me if the situation starts to go sour, and in the meantime, get back to work.”

 

“Yes, capitano!”

 

\-----

 

Everything seems fairly calm in the canteen, Ermal is pleased to see. The inmates all seem fairly calm, and are happily enjoying their lunch, which doesn’t actually look half bad. After ten minutes, he sees Fabrizio walk in, take a tray, and join the queue. Across the room, he winks at Ermal and gives a brief wave.

 

And Ermal smiles back.

 

\----

 

“Frankie! Quick!”

 

“What, what’s happened?”

 

The chef runs from the kitchen to see half of his servers away from the counter, all chatting excitedly.

 

“It seems him and Fab have already met. I saw him wink, did you see him wink?”

 

“No, I just saw a wave, you’re making that up.”

 

“Hey, look at that smile on his face-”

 

“No, look at the huge queue that’s not going down because you bastards get too easily distracted,” Frankie jokingly chides, as the men return to the counter, scooping food onto trays and handing out bits of fruit.

 

“I’m just saying, Frankie, this might be love at first sight,” Luca softly says to the chef.

 

“No, no, no, and no. You may not say that. Fabri is not to fall in love again while in this prison, and if he does, I don’t want to be here to clean up the inevitable mess that will result.”

 

“Oh yeah, you mentioned the break-up.”

 

“Not so much the break up as the subsequent arguments, prison-wide carnage and emotional pandemonium from both men. One got addicted to heroin again, one slept with an average of ten men a week, and another man got brutally stabbed to death in the yard.”

 

“Oh yeah. Must have forgot about that.”

 

“I wish I could. I tell you, getting Fabri clean after that epic sequence of events was fucking hard work, and I don’t want him getting in that situation again.”

 

“That’s reasonable,” Luca mumbles, and when Frankie finally thinks he’s getting a moment of respite, adds: “But, speaking completely objectively as one of the only heterosexual men in this prison, they would make one gorgeous couple.”

 

\----

 

Ermal is starting to feel anxious. Where are the other guards? After what seems like millennia, yet probably only minutes, pass, two walk in, faces red from the cold outside.

 

“What are you doing there? You need to stand by the door to make sure they don’t take food out with them.” A stern looking guard chides, but before Ermal can explain, the other interjects:

 

“Easy, Mengoni, it’s his first day.” The man smiles down at Ermal as the two men walk over to the doorway, Mengoni heading towards the kitchen. “My name’s Dino Rubini, and you are Erman?”

 

“Ermal, but close,” the younger man smiles. “I was told to come here, but there was nobody to-”

 

“No worries, no harm done,” Dino shrugs, “Don’t mind Mengoni over there, he’s cranky before he eats his lunch, that’s all.”

 

The two men engage in small talk about where in Milan they live, as Fabrizio reaches the counter, where the men serving the food appear to spend ages talking to him about something seemingly very exciting, causing the man to blush and shake his head almost comically quickly.

 

The afternoon passes fairly uneventfully, as the inmates return to their work. Ermal is stationed in the garden, where most of the older inmates work, weeding, growing vegetables in the garden by the shed, idly passing the time. 

 

On multiple occasions, he’s forced to pull his mind from Fabrizio. At five o’clock, a bell rings to signify the end of work for the day, and the end of Ermal’s shift. When all the inmates are inside and the door is locked, Ermal parts ways with Emiliano (his babysitter for the afternoon), and walks towards Marco’s office. But something else takes his interest…

 

He briefly enters the library- it stays open until six so that inmates working during the day have time to check books out- and heads over to the Albanian section. There was a book on Albanian folklore he just wanted to peruse-

 

“Er, can I help you, Mr Guard?” The Spanish voice from earlier pipes up, startling Ermal who swivels round on his heels. The young man sits at the counter, turning leaflets into paper aeroplanes, and seems somewhat more subdued than earlier.

 

“No, no, I was just looking.” When the guard humphs in response, Ermal nervously adds:

 

“I’m not going to take it, I just want to get the title so I can-”

 

“They’re not my books. And I don’t speak Albanian, so go wild. I won’t miss them.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Of course I’m not.”

 

“You can drop the cheek, if you don’t mind.”

 

Salvador laughs and shakes his head. 

 

“If I don’t mind, oh you’re adorable, you are, being all polite and courteous.”

 

Ermal takes the book and approaches the counter. “Don’t take advantage of my manners just because you’re not used to them.”

 

“Yes, mother, whatever you say.” Salvador uses a ruler and paperclip to sear away a part of the plane’s wing, paying no attention to Ermal whatsoever.

 

“Right, clearly we’re getting nowhere. Are you going to check this book out for me or not?”

 

Salvador sighs and mumbles something about ‘ruining my fun’ and ‘can’t joke with anyone around here’ whilst fumbling around for a red notebook. It’s then that Ermal notices the purple marks hiding behind the hair which covers his cheek.

 

“Pull your hair back.”

 

Salvador freezes. After a moment he decides to ignore Ermal and opens the notebook to today’s date. 

 

“Now.” Ermal crosses his arms, attempting to take up a stern position, to remind the inmate who’s in charge, yet he can’t help but soften his pose when Salvador takes a breath, pulls the hair back, and exposes his face fully. The left side of his forehead is a horrible combination of indigo and green, and his cheek seems redder than it should be.

 

“Are you happy now?” Salvador asks, with none of his earlier chirpiness.

 

“What happened, Salvador?” Ermal asks, trying to sound gentle and approachable. It doesn’t work.

 

“God happened.”

 

“What?”

 

“God. Happened.” The man refuses to elaborate further, scribbling in the book as he lets go of his hair, the injuries quickly becoming concealed. 

 

“You dropped a bible on your face from height?” Ermal asks incredulously.

 

“No. It fell from height. From a shelf, to be precise. Are we done with this interrogation, or do I have to fake a heart-attack to get you to go away?”

 

Shit. The inmate’s cross. And the last thing Ermal needs is to be on his own, utterly defenceless, in a room on his own with him. So he pulls his hands up in mock surrender, takes the book, and quickly leaves.

 

* * *

 

 

“You took your time, Erms,” Marco chides when Ermal walks into the office, finally ready to go home. “I’ve been waiting at least ten minutes.”

 

Ermal smiles sheepishly and shows Marco the book.

 

“You and your fairytales,” Marco rolls his eyes, before the two men leave the office, and Marco asks: “How was today?”

 

“It was good. Not great, but good.” Ermal answers, trying to shake the image of Salvador’s bruises from his mind. 

 

“That’s good. You’ll know the ropes soon enough, don’t worry.”

 

“Macco…”

 

“...be one of us in no time. I’m so proud of you, you know, Ermal, you were so stressed earlier on the way in, and you’ve done just fine today-”

 

“Macco..”

 

“And don’t worry about lunchtime, I’ve spoken to Dino and Mengoni and told them not to leave you alone like that, not while you’re still learning. Gave them a proper talking to for leaving you on your own in a whole, crowded room of inmates-”

 

“MACCO.”

 

“Sorry, Erms, got carried away...what’s up?”

 

“It was definitely the bible that Salvador had to throw away this morning, wasn’t it?”

 

“Yeah, why?”

 

“I forgot. It...annoyed me all afternoon…”

 

For the rest of the journey home, Ermal feels slightly sick. 

* * *

 

 

Thud.

 

The library door slams shut, and Salvador goes to chide the inmate who’s just walked in, when-

 

“What the fuck did that guard want?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Answer the question.” The inmates browsing the shelves all suddenly go silent and look at Sal, who is now trapped between the counter and Matteo.

 

“He wanted an Albanian book on folklore, so I checked it out for him.” Salvador swallows. “That’s all.”

 

“Everyone get the fuck out.” 

 

And the inmates comply immediately, leaving Sal pressed up against the desk, the edge of it cutting into his back, as Matteo says nothing, breathing heavily as he waits for the library to empty. Whenever he exhales, Salvador feels it on his cheek, his hair rippling slightly.

 

“Don’t lie to me, Sal. I saw it all.”

 

“He told me to show him my face, what was I supposed to do?”

 

“I don’t know, maybe tell him to mind his own fucking business? You’re an intelligent man, Sal, surely you could have thought of something?”

 

Matteo places his hands on the desk beside Sal, preventing him from moving anywhere.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“You better fucking be sorry.” A short pause, when Sal shuts his eyes and tenses up, bracing himself for whatever Matteo has in store. 

 

“I told him a book dropped from a shelf….it-it hit me in the face…” Sal’s voice trembles and he dares to open his eyes after a few moments pass, meeting Matteo’s gaze. “I’m sorry for what you had to see.”

 

It’s then that Matteo leans back, one hand settling on Sal’s waist as the other pulls back the hair covering his face.

 

“No, Sal, no, no, I’m sorry…” Matteo begins, his voice softening and sounding slightly raspy. Sal says nothing, but winces when Matteo traces his fingers over the bruise.

 

“I thought I was getting better with my temper, and now look at me. Look what I’ve done.”

 

“It’s-it’s ok. You didn’t mean it…” Sal whispers, struggling to hold back tears of his own. It’s not the first time he’s had to cover up for Matteo’s actions, but he’s never left a bruise before today... 

 

He remembers exactly how the argument started, when Matteo started lurking around Fabri’s bunk and Frankie told him to fuck off, and Sal stupidly took Frankie’s side, insisting to Matteo that the man wanted to stay sober, that he needed to give the man space…

 

He remembers the way Matteo practically dragged him from the dorm to the shower room, seething at him for being a ‘traitorous bastard,’ ‘pathetic, idealistic puppet of that god-forsaken, self-righteous chef’ and ‘meddling where you know you’re neither needed nor wanted.’ 

 

He remembers opening his mouth to argue back, before being immediately cut off when Matteo shoved him into the shower wall. Hard.

 

He remembers the way Matteo skulked off, leaving Sal to sit in the shower, running lukewarm water over himself to numb the colossal ache in his face, tears mingling with the blood on his cheek, his clothes getting soaked, his heart hurting a little while his pulse settled down, but not having any energy to care.

 

He’s brought back to the present when Matteo wraps him up in his arms, pulling Sal into his chest. 

 

“I’m so, so fucking sorry, Sal,” he chokes out, and Sal lets himself cry with him, silent tears rolling down his face. “I didn’t mean to lash out, I just got so angry- you know how bad business is right now- I just lost it.” His breaths shake more and more before he swallows with difficulty,  “I only meant to push you, not for you to fall and hit your head, you know that, right, baby?”

 

“Hey, hey,” Salvador coos, as he pulls out of Matteo’s grip to look at the man. “I know. It’s- it’s ok, it’s ok…” 

 

What else is he supposed to say? What else can he say?

 

“Let’s skip dinner tonight, hm?” Matteo suggests. “We could both use some rest, I think.”

 

Sal doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to say no to Matteo right now, but he’s also hungry.

 

“I’ll have something in my bunk for us to eat. If I don’t, I’ll get Niccolo to grab you something from the canteen.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“I’m so sorry, Sal. God, it looks awful, I can’t believe I’d hurt you like that, of all people…”

 

“It was an accident, Mat, just an accident.”

 

“I’ll get a cold flannel to put on it, that’ll soothe the pain, hm?”

 

“Y-yeah.”

 

As Sal locks up the library, Matteo runs his fingers through the locks of his hair, straightening them back down to their former position. He keeps an arm around Sal the whole walk back.

 

Later that night, after curfew, when they both lie together in Matteo’s bed, the older man hums softly into the crook of Sal’s neck, running his hand up and down the man’s chest.

 

“You know why I got angry earlier, baby?”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

“That new guard. He was clearly checking you out.”

 

“No he wasn’t, he just wanted his book.”

 

“No, baby, he likes your intelligence. It sets you apart from all the other shitbags in here, makes you stand out.”

 

“If you say so,” Sal yawns, before fidgeting to find a comfortable position on the hard, springy mattress.

 

“I know these guard types well, Sal. And you know what else I know?”

 

“What?”

 

“I don’t like other people flirting with my boyfriend. That’s my job.”

 

“Shh! People will hear. We’re not telling them yet, we both agreed-”

 

“They’re all asleep, baby. But you understand, yes?”

 

“Yeah, sure I do.”

 

“Ok, Ok, baby, I’ll let you sleep now.”

 

“Thanks, caro. Good night.”

 

“Sleep well, amore mio.”

  
  



	8. Chapter 8- The Evolution of Pepsi-Moro

Chapter 8- The Evolution of Pepsi-Moro

 

**“Courage isn’t having the strength to go on- it is going on when you don’t have the strength.”**

 

_ January 26th 2008, 4:30 AM, Dorm B _

 

Silence is rare in prison. Harder to find than any drug and never given the respect it deserves. Always, even in the night, there’s an inmate swearing at God, crying that his wife’s left him, tossing and turning, snoring… 

 

Or in this case, violently retching. 

 

“Frankie…” the chef is surprisingly not awoken by the vomiting, but Salvador whining and shaking him to wake him up.

 

“Sal? What’s up?” He hears the retching yet isn’t quite awake enough to understand who the noise is coming from.

 

“Make it stop,” Sal positively begs, and when Frankie opens his eyes properly, he sees the tired marks under Sal’s eyes, the lack of sleep clearly taking its toll on an already fragile body, and he sighs, getting up from the warmth of his bed, as Sal collapses back into his own, rolling over to face the wall.

 

He walks across the dorm to the bunk opposite, where Fabrizio sits on the side of his bed, shaking violently, beads of sweat trickling down his face, as Eugent holds a bucket in front of him, gently rubbing his back.

 

Fabrizio’s on his third day of withdrawal now, and he looks weaker every day. It’s hard to watch a body torture itself, deprived of the one thing that can end its suffering. The man’s face is pale from vomiting and lack of food, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, limbs trembling uncontrollably, beady with sweat. He’s asked for Matteo three times according to Eugent, and on one occasion the man had to physically keep Fabrizio back from going to him, a movement which led to Fabrizio almost breaking down (that inevitable event had yet to take place) and Eugent being covered in vomit. Still, the Albanian refuses to let his friend relapse, and Francesco begins to wonder if the man has more than just sexual feelings for his new bunkmate...

 

“Morning, chef,” Eugent smiles, before breaking out into a yawn, “I take it we’re not getting a special midnight withdrawal snack? Not that Moro here could keep it down, bless him.”

 

“Afraid not, Peps. Talking about keeping it down…”

 

“I-Sorry,” Fabrizio rasps, between tremors and rasps for air, “It-it shouldn’t last t-too much longer…”

 

Francesco can’t help but soften when Fabrizio apologetically glances at him, eyes red from vomiting and/or perhaps crying, looking completely helpless and pathetic.

 

“Hey, hey, don’t apologise,” he says gently, “It’s nothing we’ve not all seen many times before, plus we all know you’re withdrawing, and the others will respect that.”

 

“Exactly, hm, Moro?” Eugent smiles, using a tissue to wipe Fabrizio’s forehead.

 

“Still, honourable as your intentions are, you don’t want all the inmates here to be pissed off tomorrow due to getting no sleep,” Frankie says, “I’ll take you to the bathroom, you can vomit to your heart’s content there.”

 

“Don’t you have work in the morning?” Fabrizio asks, hugging the bucket close to him.

 

“Yeah, good point Moro, maybe I should…” Eugent pauses to yawn, “... take him instead.”

 

“You’ve looked after him all day, Gent, get some rest.” 

 

“I really don’t mind-”

 

“Eugent, you aren’t allowed in the showers on your own after curfew and you know it.”

 

“I won’t be...on my own, though, right, Moro?” the man asks, nudging Fabrizio.

 

“Um… you should sleep, you’ve been yawning the last hour,” Bizio mumbles, leaning into Eugent’s shoulder slightly as his nausea subsides momentarily. “Plus you can’t be late to work again, you’ll get in trouble…”

 

“Mmm..kay…” Eugent mumbles, before going to get into his own bunk. When Frankie goes to help Bizio to his feet, however, he notices how soaking wet the sheets are from Bizio’s sweat, and turns briefly to Eugent.

 

“Don’t be too put-out, Peps, you may be spending more time with him tonight after all…”

 

But Eugent is already asleep.

 

\------

 

When the two men reach the bathroom, Bizio practically sprints into the cubicle to throw up, yet ends up getting vomit all over his jumpsuit anyway. When the episode passes, and the urge to churn up more bile finally subsides, he emerges from the cubicle to find Frankie standing outside with a towel. 

 

“Ok, so maybe try to aim for the toilet next time, and not your pajamas…”

 

“I-I’ll clean it, it’s fine.”

 

“No, you’re going in that shower to clean yourself up before anything else, and to cool your temperature down a bit.” Frankie firmly states, turning around to allow Bizio to undress.

 

“Sure..” Bizio staggers into the cubicle, and turns on the water, still trembling so violently he nearly has to sit down on the floor…

 

“Um, Frankie?”

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Can I have a mat or something to sit on?”

 

“Um...not unless you’ve got one stashed up your ass that I don’t know about.” Frankie jokingly retorts, yet his smile fades when he hears Bizio start breathing rapidly.

 

“No, no, I can’t sit here…”

 

“Moro, what’s going on?”

 

“I need to get out, let me out, fuck the shower, I-”

 

Francesco then opens the cubicle door, but prevents Fabri from leaving by standing in his way. “Fabrizio, tell me what’s wrong.”

 

“P-please, Francesco, you- you don’t understand-”

 

“So tell me.” Francesco has his arms crossed yet gives no other indication that he’s angry. Fabrizio turns away from him, leaning up against the wall to support himself, shaking and swearing under his breath, on the verge of hyperventilating.

 

“Fabrizio?”

 

It’s then that the man breaks down completely, ugly sobs mixed with gasps for air, as fresh tears run down his face.

Frankie steps into the cubicle, pulling the man into his arms, and supporting his weight as he cries into his chest, no strength remaining in him at all. He’s getting soaked by the shower, but calmly reaches over to turn it off, not fazed by the scene.

 

“I- I’m sorry, you should leave me- I’ll b-be fine in- in a second.”

 

“Shhh, I’m staying here, ok?”

 

He rubs the man’s back, not letting go until his breathing calms and he pulls away to turn around, trying to preserve the little dignity that he still possesses.

 

“I’ll get your towel,” Frankie turns to leave the cubicle. “I’m not leaving, ok? I’m just in the bathroom outside.”

 

Fabrizio nods silently, head pressed up against the wall. He hadn’t been at all prepared for how filthy the shower was, and the thought of sitting on its floor, surrounded by countless germs and god knows what else… he’d freaked out. Fucking hypochondria.

 

But although the panic has subsided, the tears continue to fall.

 

He wants to be in a proper shower, somewhere else, in a real house, with heat and his children and peace and hygiene, and, more than anything, drugs. Even if it’s just a painkiller to take away the constant pounding in his head. For every reason he has to stop using, there’s a symptom urging him to give in.

 

How the fuck has he ended up here? He never killed anyone, never hurt anyone, and only delivered his dealer’s heroin to clients other men had sought out. He’s not a criminal. He doesn’t belong in prison. He belongs in Rome, two and a half hours South, with his children, with his freedom…

 

He silently takes the towel Frankie passes over, and slowly dries his body off. The shower has cooled his skin somewhat, yet he still feels nauseous, shaky, anxious…

 

“Come on, Fab, we need to get back soon.”

 

It’s when Fabri leaves the shower that he realises he has nothing to wear except the towel. All his clothes are soiled, and nowhere to be seen.

 

“I got the guard outside to take your clothes to the laundry. Pity the bugger that has to wash them tomorrow.” Frankie jokes. “Wear that for now, then put some of my spare clothes on when we get back to the bunk.”

 

As Fabrizio slides his shoes on, he can’t help but look at Frankie and ask:

“Why?”

 

“Why what?”

 

“Why are you doing all this for me? Surely it would be easier to get someone else to do it, who doesn’t have a morning job, or who actually has a reason to be so invested in me? I’m practically a stranger to you.”

 

There’s an awkwards silence, and Fabrizio is on the verge of saying it doesn’t matter, when Frankie answers.

 

“Some of us believe in good karma.”

 

\-----

 

_ 1982, The Suburbs of Rome _

 

It’s cold when he wakes up in his cot, his thin, ragged blanket barely helping him retain any heat. He feels the hunger in his stomach and the pain in his gums, where his last teeth have yet to come through. 

 

“Mama!” He manages to shout one of the only words he knows, and repeats it again and again, but his shouts are to no avail. 

 

That’s...strange.

 

Normally mama wakes up when he shouts loud and hard enough...perhaps she’s more tired than usual, but that doesn’t make sense, because she’s slept so much the last few days. 

 

Maybe she can’t hear him…

 

“Mama!” He tries again, but gets no response. Minutes pass, maybe hours, but he doesn’t stop shouting until his voice is hoarse and his throat stings with the effort. It’s only when he stops that he realises he’s crying. Silent tears roll down his pale little cheeks, dropping onto the mattress below him. He wants his mama to come into his room, pick him up from his cot, and tell him that everything will be ok. And maybe to get him some food…

 

Hours have definitely passed now. His stomach rumbles and he stops crying, yet he’s overwhelmed by a wave of fear. What if mama isn’t coming back? Maybe a monster came in the night and took her away… and now she can’t come home to him anymore.

 

He decides not to think about that, and lies down on his cot. His nappy is now too full, making him even more uncomfortable, and he wants his mama more than ever…

It’s now dark. He’s scared. Monsters might come. And if mama isn’t there, they can take him away, and he won’t have anyone to save him and cuddle him until he feels better. He cries again, and doesn’t stop until exhaustion sends him to sleep.

 

The sun comes up, then goes down, then comes up again. He counts each time. 

 

He’s tried to pull himself out of his cot, but the bars are too high, and one has given him a splinter, which makes his hand sore. His gums ache, his tummy feels more empty than ever, his throat is too dry and he itches underneath his nappy, which is now overflowing. But that’s not the disgusting thing he can smell. No, there’s something coming from the other room, something that makes him want to be sick- if he had something to be sick with. It’s horrible. Lonely. Scary.

 

Then he hears a loud bang from the door of the apartment and curls into a ball. 

 

It’s the monsters.

 

The monsters are talking amongst themselves. He doesn’t hear the words, though. Maybe it’s a different language- monsterspeak or something like that. He wonders whether they have green skin and whether they eat babies, and maybe-

 

Oh no. No, no, no. 

 

They’re coming to get him. 

 

They’re opening the door.

 

They’re going to take him away, just like they took mama.

 

He covers his eyes with his hands so he won’t see them and get more frightened.

 

“Oh my god!”

 

“Poor thing, he looks filthy-”

 

“Commander, this is Officer Vincenza requesting medical assistance and a social worker on the scene ASAP.”

 

What does this mean? He opens his eyes to see a pair of policemen looking down at him, their badges twinkling in the sunlight. One goes to pick him up, but he backs away and calls for his mama, one last attempt before they take him away, just one-

 

“Mama!”

 

“Shhh, it’s ok, piccolo…” the taller man coos, crouching down to look at him between the bars of the cot. “We’re not going to hurt you, we just want to help you, ok?”

 

“No...no take away from mama,” the boy tries to protest, but his voice is a mere rasp, his dry throat making it difficult to speak…

 

“Shh, we need to look after you now, ok? I promise we won’t hurt you-” 

 

And then the man reaches in, plucking him out of the cot, and placing him onto his changing mat. He tries in vain to crawl away, but the officers firmly hold him down, as one takes off his nappy and replaces it with a new one. It hurts. It scratches. Mama does it nicer. 

 

“No, no, you need to stay with us, ok?” 

 

“MAMA!”

 

“Shh, I know, I know, it’s ok…”

 

“WHERE MAMA?”

 

A knock on the door. There’s a woman in a flowery dress standing there, accompanied by a nurse. The policeman hands him over to the woman, who strokes his back, pulling him into her chest as he cries.

 

“Shhh...let’s get you somewhere nicer, sweetie.” 

 

As she carries him away, making sure to avoid all the mess on the floor, the officers begin to examine his bedroom, one wiping a tear from his eye. But then they pass mama’s bedroom, and the door is open-

 

“MAMA!”

 

“No, no, shut the door quick!” The woman orders but it’s too late.

 

He’s already seen the body.

 

\-----

 

“Karma. Right.” Bizio doesn’t believe Frankie, yet chooses not to push him on what’s clearly a delicate topic. When the two men reach the dorms, Frankie guides Bizio to sit on his bunk as he rummages around for something for him to wear. 

 

“I don’t really believe in karma, or that spiritual stuff, but it seems interesting…” Bizio says, mainly to avoid the awkward silence that has taken over the atmosphere of the bunk.

 

“No, it’s bullshit.” Frankie retorts, and it’s then that Bizio sees him sniff and hide his face from his view.

 

“Hey, hey, don’t- don’t...look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry…” 

 

Frankie leaves the box of clothes open and sits beside Fabrizio on the bunk. He keeps his eyes fixed on the ground and takes a deep breath.

 

“Fabrizio, the reason… the reason I care so much that you stop using, and that you become sober, it’s- it’s not personal, ok? Don’t feel bad about it.”

 

“I- I don’t know what you mean.”

 

Frankie runs a hand through his hair and whispers, barely audibly:

 

“My mum- my biological mum, that is- died of a drug overdose. A heroin overdose, to be exact.”

 

“Oh god, that’s- I’m so sorry…”

 

“It’s ok. Well, it’s not, but I mean, I barely knew her, it was when I was two, and I got my foster parents now, so it turned out to be fairly alright, I guess…”

 

“It’s because of my kids…”

 

“Sort of. That, plus you seem like you do want to get out of here at some point, to build your life back up again, and you can’t do that if you’re addicted. Also, addicts attract unwanted company around here, and I don’t want any shady business going on near my bunk, so it’s a win-win for everyone really…”

 

“I appreciate your help, Francesco, really I do.”

 

“As long as it works, and you stay sober, it’s all the thanks I need.”

 

The two men sit quietly for a few minutes, neither knowing how best to respond…

 

“I found a pair of boxers for you to sleep in. You can wear your own clothes from yesterday tomorrow.”

 

“Thanks.”

After he changes and gives Frankie back the towel to hang up, Bizio gets up to leave, heading out of the dorm, when-

 

“Oh shit, your bed, it’s soaked,” Frankie remembers. “Share with Eugent, I’ll get the sheets put into the laundry now.”

 

“Frankie, you should sleep-”

 

“I have to be awake in an hour, there’s no point. I’ll just, uh, nap or something tomorrow. Plus I could use a walk on my own. Clear my head a bit.”

 

“Sure.... well, if you need me, to talk or whatever, you know where I am...if you want me, that is. I can’t say I’m great at therapy, but I can always listen.” Fabrizio knows he’s rambling, and likely being more annoying than helpful, but he feels like he can’t leave Frankie all alone after such a revelation about his mother. Frankie’s done so much for him, the least he can do is offer a shoulder to cry on in return.

 

“Thanks, Moro. I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

And then Bizio remembers where Frankie had told him to sleep. He sees Eugent sprawled out on his little bunk like a starfish, and briefly considers sharing with Frankie or Sal instead, yet soon abandons that idea when he realises how pissed they’ll both be to lose yet more sleep because of him. Eugent won’t mind as much, he doesn’t think. 

 

He pulls up the blanket, nudging Eugent softly.

 

“Moro?”

 

“Shh, just budge up…”

 

“You need to...throw... up?” Eugent mumbles, eyes closing again.

 

“I don’t think there’s anything left to throw up, honestly.”

 

“Wha-wha’s wrong?” Eugent slurs, before Bizio attempts to roll him over.

 

“Nothing...I’m just cold. Can I share with you tonight?”

 

Eugent’s ears prick up at that question, and he immediately shuffles over to make room for Fabrizio.

 

“Lemme warm you…”

 

“No, that’s not necess- ok then, spoon me, that’s- that’s fine…”

 

Thank god Eugent’s shattered and doesn’t stay awake long enough to try anything else.

 

\----

 

A buzzer sounds the next morning, jerking Fabrizio from his sleep. Slightly groggy, he yawns, relieved that the pounding in his head has reduced to a mere ache and the nausea has largely disappeared. Finally, it’s over…

 

“Morning, i bukur,” a voice softly sounds. Bizio then realises that he’s not in his own bed...and he’s not lying on a pillow, but Eugent’s chest, his hands draped over the Albanian’s body. With one hand Eugent cuddles Fabrizio, and with the other he plays with the Roman’s hair.

 

“What the-?”

 

“I slept great, thanks,’ Eugent smiles, and he moves his hand down to trace Fabrizio’s tattoos when the Roman sits up instantly.

 

“Frankie told me to- to share with you while my bedding was washed,” Bizio stammers.

 

“Sure he did.” 

 

“No, Eugent, don’t look at me like that, you know the sheets were disgusting-”

 

“You’re adorable. Hell no, we’re adorable, Frankie said himself when he saw us cuddling this morning.” Eugent pulls up the blanket to cover himself, eyes twinkling in the morning light, as Fabrizio pulls his clothes from the box underneath his bunk, getting dressed.

 

“Look, last night was- it was just a one-off, a withdrawal thing-”

 

“Wow, Moro, you’re acting like we actually fucked-” 

 

“I need to get to work.”

 

“Oh come on, Moro, you’re overreacting-”

 

“Eugent.” Bizio sighs, running a hand through his messy hair. “Thank you for helping me through withdrawal, I really appreciate it. But we’re just friends, ok?”

 

Eugent laughs softly, and brings out the puppy eyes to ask Bizio:

 

“Fancy giving me a blowjob as a thank you? And to celebrate our new, adorable friendship?”

Bizio gives him the middle finger as he walks to breakfast alone, without another word.

 

“No, Moro, don’t get upset, come back, I was only joking-”

 

When it becomes apparent that Fabrizio is not listening, he leans back on the pillow, where the scent of the man’s hair lingers. He cuddles it close and swears under his breath.

 

“Fuck.”

 

\-----

 

“Oi.”

 

“What, Sal?”

 

“Vador. It’s Sal-va-dor. Three syllables, asshole. Additionally, this is a queue. You stand behind and wait, you don’t push in.”

 

“My friend said I could, now shut up.”

 

“Well, Gideon, I say you can’t.”

 

“And who put you in charge?”

 

“I know the chef. I’ll get him to spit in your food.”

 

“Wow, I’m so scared.”

 

“Maybe he has mouth herpes.”

 

“You’re lying.”

 

“Want to chance it?”

 

“Just leave it, Salvador. Let me queue in peace.”

 

“Fine. I will.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“I’ll get Matteo to beat you up instead.”

 

“....Shit.”

 

“So I’ll be cutting in front, thank you so much, and have a wonderful day.”

 

\------

 

Fabrizio is scrubbing the walls of the dining hall after breakfast is over, and Francesco walks over from where the kitchen staff are cleaning up and preparing for lunch.

 

“You’re looking better.” He says, a smile on his face. Bizio looks up and nods slightly.

 

“Yeah, still not quite there, but I’m definitely over the worst, thanks.”

 

“I’m glad to hear it.”

 

“Thanks for-”

 

“I already said, pal, don’t mention it.”

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Bizio chuckles, before remarking: “You’re looking very happy for a man on less than two hours sleep, I have to say.”

 

“Ah, today’s a good day. My parents are visiting this afternoon, plus you and Peps looked ridiculously cute this morning. I wish I could have taken a photo.”

 

“Oh, for gods sake-”

 

“Now, Moro, it was perfectly innocent, just very sweet to see you both cuddled up like two kittens in a basket.”

 

“Well it’s not happening again. Last night was a one-off.”

 

“If you say so.”

 

And with that, Frankie winks and then wanders off back to the kitchen.

 

If Fabrizio scrubs extra hard, nobody mentions anything.

 

\------

 

Sitting at the librarian’s desk, waiting for B-dorm to be allowed into lunch, Sal hears the door open, and sees a very dejected Eugent walk in.

 

“Oh dear, that’s a grumpy face you’re wearing.”

“He hates me.” Eugent sits by the desk in front of Sal and runs a hand through his hair. “I pissed him off this morning, and now he doesn’t want to sleep with me again.”

 

“Whoa, wait a second, you slept with Fabs? Why didn’t I know this? Let me guess, his dick is medium-sized but in a good way, he shaves but there’s still some hair, he’s not circumcised, and there’s a tattoo somewhere down there.”

 

“We shared my bed because his was covered in sweat and vomit from his withdrawal.”

 

“Oh. That’s not quite as sexy.”

 

“I’ve ruined everything.” Eugent’s head droops down, and he sighs mournfully.

 

“Come on Peps, it’s not that bad-”

 

“He hasn’t spoken to me all morning, and ate breakfast with those weird biker guys with the shitty tattoos rather than sit next to me.”

 

“Ok...he does sound a bit pissed off, I’m not gonna lie.”

 

“How do I fix this, Salvador?”

 

“Um, not sure. Write an epic poem expressing your regret that you ruined this golden opportunity to fuck such a glorious specimen?”

 

“Remind me to never come to you for advice.”

 

“Look, if it’s any consolation, me and Frankie hated each other at first, and now we’re best friends.”

 

\------

 

_ 30th May 2006, B-Dorm, Salvador’s Bunk _

 

“And this will be your bunk right here. It’s quite a nice one, really, all things considered- oh for gods sake. Sobral, move your shit off his bed.”

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

“I know you’ve never had to share your cube with another inmate before, but-”

 

“And I am not about to.”

 

“Well, I’m leaving him here on guard’s orders, so fucking get used to it.”

 

And Gideon paces off in a sulk, leaving the new inmate standing somewhat awkwardly at the entrance. He glances at his bed, covered in books, laundry, and a couple of magazines.

 

“Uh, I’m Francesco, but you can call me-”

 

“You’re over the line. Get. Out.” Salvador does not move from his bed, where he’s sat reading 50 Shades of Grey, yet stares Francesco in the eye.

 

“Make me, inmate.” Francesco says, emphasising every continent, before going further into the bunk to place his box down by his bed.

 

“Um, no you fucking don’t, asshole,” Sal puts the book down, sitting up far too fast-

 

After gathering up all the items on top of his bed that belong to Sal, Frankie deposits them hastily on the floor by Sal’s bunk.

 

“You don’t make the rules, so stop trying to emulate the protagonist of that shitty book you’re reading, and suck it up.” Frankie mutters, before turning around to make his bed, and swearing in pain when said book hits him in the back of the head. “What the fuck?”

 

“That was me. Making you’- Sal indicates to Frankie- ‘ get the fuck out of my cube.”

 

“Look, I get that you’re upset, but can we at least try to be civil? I didn’t ask to be assigned here, ok?”

 

“And you did nothing when I told you to move.”

 

“What’s your problem, anyway? You can’t possibly need this whole cube to yourself, you’re as tiny as anything!”

 

And then Frankie walks over to Sal’s bunk, hovering over the smaller man, who feels just a bit on edge.

 

“If you so much as touch me, I will tell every man in this dorm about it, and they will have you for breakfast.”

 

“Really, now?” Frankie laughs, unperturbed by Salvador’s threat. “Think they won’t take my side over a spoiled little brat’s?”

 

A silence sweeps over the bunk, broken a few moments later when Sal takes a deep sigh.

 

“You know, you’re absolutely right,” Sal smiles, a dry tone to his words. “You do whatever you like, Mr Francesco.”

 

Frankie is hesitant, but nods curtly, turning back to finish making his bed up. “What’s your name, by the way?”

 

“Salvador. And you may not call me anything else.”

 

“Noted.”

 

Later that night, Frankie returns from his registration to see his sheets slightly ruffled and Salvador looking very smug, tucked up in his own bunk getting ready to sleep. He decides to think nothing of it, until he notices a damp, white patch halfway down the bed.

 

“What the fuck?”

 

“Bunk-warming present.” Sal pipes up, and Frankie has to use enormous self-restraint not to murder the man there and then.

 

“You masturbated...in my bed?”

 

“Aww, you’re smart, you figured out my surprise,” Sal mocks, before turning over and wishing Frankie sweet dreams.

 

Just before dawn, Salvador is rudely awoken when a cup of water is poured over his face. 

 

“Oh, sorry Sal, did I forget to mention I sleepwalk sometimes?”

 

“Sal-vador to you, stronzo.”

 

The next day, a dead spider appears in Frankie’s pillowcase.

 

That night, Frankie has to contain his laughter when he sees Sal struggling to eat his extra spicy portion of pasta, tears running down his red cheeks.

 

It’s not so funny the next day when Frankie goes to confront Salvador about his prized cookbook, the one his foster parents gave him for his first Christmas with them, disappearing.

 

“Where the fuck is my book?”

 

“I- I don’t know what you’re- you’re talking about.”

 

“Cut the bullshit. I know you took it.”

“Please, just let me- sit-”

 

“Stop trying to worm your way out of this, you little shit. You can sit down when you tell me where the fucking book is.”

 

“P-please, I-I…”

 

“You’re really pissing me off now, you hear me?”

 

“F-francesco…”

 

But before Sal can get another word out, he falls forward against the taller man, crumpling onto the floor like a sack of potatoes.

 

“Very funny.”

 

Frankie goes back to his bunk, but realises the man isn’t playing a trick when he starts wheezing heavily, his lips starting to turn a pale blue-

 

“Fuck.”

 

\----

 

“He thought he’d killed me, see,” Sal narrates to Eugent, whilst swivelling around on his chair. “They got me to medical though, and I was fine once they did their thing, but he came to see me later that night, and he looked so guilty. He’d definitely been crying.”

 

“Jesus, I’m glad I wasn’t your bunkie, you’d have fucking terrified me.”

 

“He made me Pastel de Nata though, to apologise for the incident, so I decided he was actually ok as far as bunkmates go, and we got on from then.”

 

“Thank god.”

 

“Plus, there was this homophobic asshole in the cube opposite us, where you are now. He was preaching to Frankie this one day, absolutely relentlessly, so I threw the bible at him and told him that Jesus didn’t hate fags, but figs and homophobic assholes.”

 

“Thanks for the tip, I guess?”

 

“Look, Peps, you’ve moved too quickly. Wait a month or so, and then when he’s really bored of prison and extremely sexually frustrated, make your move and invite him to fuck you into the next world.”

“Maybe he got spooked this morning. I’ll make it up to him somehow.”

 

“You do that, Gent. I’m rooting for you!”

\------

 

There’s a line of at least five men waiting in the corridor after dinner, and Bizio knows he’ll be queueing for a long while before he’s at the front, but he doesn’t mind. He’s been waiting for this moment since the second he entered the prison, and would have seized an earlier opportunity had his withdrawal not prevented him from functioning entirely. It feels like eternity before he finally has his turn to use the phone, and having taken five minutes trying to fathom how the phone cards actually work, he manages to dial the familiar number…

 

“Hello?”

 

“Giada?” 

 

Simply saying her name causes a cloud of emotion to form at the back of his throat. The woman he trusts to raise his children while he languishes in prison for the most part of the next decade. The woman he’s condemned to a life she never chose, but one that she’s undertaken without complaint. The woman that would always be on the end of a telephone line, to rescue him from any crisis, that he could rely on for anything and everything at one point....

 

“Fabri? Is that you?” She asks, and there’s a quiver in her voice that indicates her relief at finally hearing from him yet also a tinge of nervousness- this is unknown territory for the both of them, and neither know how best to navigate this situation.

 

“Y-yeah, it is. How are you?” Despite knowing that she’s not going to be ok now or for a long time, he doesn’t really know what else to ask. Also, he doesn’t want to talk about himself at all if he can help it. He wants the voices on the other side of the line to take him- just momentarily- away from the prison he’s trapped in, back to the home he knows, where his children are and the criminals, drugs and parasites aren’t.

 

“I could be worse, all things considered,” Giada starts, but the tremor in her voice indicates otherwise. Fabrizio doesn’t pry, but just waits for the inevitable question, “How are you doing in there?”

 

“It’s...not so bad. It’s so...different to home, but I’m getting used to it, I guess.”

 

“Telling the kids was hard. Probably one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, besides giving birth to them.” She holds back the anger and the accusations, but can’t ignore the issue altogether, and Fabrizio knows it.

 

“How did they take it?”

 

“Well, obviously Ani doesn’t understand. She cries for you sometimes, and that’s...tough, but hopefully we can visit soon and she can see you for a bit…” 

 

“And- and Libero?” He’s barely choking the words out now, the mere mention of their names a painful reminder of the distance between the father and his children.

 

“He’s- he’s not doing so well. He’s been even quieter than usual, he’s not engaging at school, and he punched a kid who teased him about you.”

 

“He punched someone?”

 

Libero’s never shown any violence towards anyone before. Even as a toddler in nursery, the worst he did was push away fellow toddlers who were trying to attack him, and even then he picked them back up afterwards. It has to be the stress of Fabrizio going to prison, it’s his fault. 

 

It’s all his fault.

 

“Look, I’m sure it’ll get easier in time,” Giada says, “When can we visit?”

 

“Um...I think on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, but not in the morning when I have work-”

 

“That’s not too bad, we can maybe come twice a week, keep the kids in contact-”

 

“What about the drive?”

 

“What drive?”

 

“Did they not tell you?”

 

“What? What’s happened?”

 

“I’m in a prison in Milan, Giada, I thought they’d let you know where I was going-”

 

“Milan? Oh my god…”

 

“Look, we’ll work something out, alright, I need to- to speak to Lib before my ten minutes is up, is he around?”

 

“Sure.”

“Giada, I’m sorry, I didn’t ask to come here, ok?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Hang on, here’s Lib.”

 

There’s a muffling on the other side of the line as the phone is passed, when-

 

“Papa?”

 

And that’s when the tears fall. One word was all it took to break him, that of his little son, the boy who needs his papa to be strong for him, to stay clean for him, to do his time and get out of prison for him…

 

“Libero,” he almost whispers, the word rolling off of his tongue like a lemon drop- sweet and light to taste yet leaving a tinge of sourness that stings and wounds the tongue, “How are you, darling?”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“That’s good,” Fabri knows that his son won’t give long answers, and doesn’t push for them, yet takes what he can get and holds onto it.

 

“Your mum said you punched someone at school? What happened, tesoro?”

 

“He called you scum for being a criminal, and said that made me and mama and Ani scum too, and that thugs were going to beat you up everyday in prison so- so I couldn’t see you again.” The boy’s voice struggles at the end of his story, him clearly fighting back tears like his father.

 

“Hey, hey, Libero, that’s not true. I’m not being beaten up, ok? I’m fine, I promise. And you’re not scum, far from it. The only criminal in this family who deserves to be called names is me, alright?”

 

“You’re not...mad?”

 

“Of course not, caro, I’m just glad to talk to you, mainly.”

 

“I miss you, papa.”

 

How on Earth is he supposed to respond to that which breaks his heart and which he has no means to remedy?

 

“I know, I miss you too.”

 

“It’s too long before you come home.”

 

“I know. I know, caro, but maybe mama can bring you and Ani to visit soon, hm? You can see the horrible uniforms they make us all wear and laugh at your papa.”

 

“Yeah.” The boy sounds so despondent, so out of character, and it breaks Fabrizio’s heart.

 

“Listen, Lib, I have to go now, but I promise I’ll call in a few days, ok? You give your mama and sister a big cuddle from me, alright?”

 

“I will, papa. And a kiss for Ani too.”

 

“Yeah, caro, she’ll like that.” He pauses to take a deep breath, before continuing: “I love you so much, Libero.”

 

“I love you too, papa.”

 

“Bye- bye, caro.”

 

“Bye, papa.”

 

And he puts the phone down, resting it softly on its cradle, trying to eternally memorise that little voice in his head. Those few precious words on the phone may be limited, and may be painful, but they’re all he has of his son for now. He has to hold onto it.

 

It’s the only thing getting him through prison.

 

“Hey Mobrici, you alright?” 

 

Fabrizio hears a voice from the other side of the corridor, and then Enrico’s walking beside him, an arm tightly wrapped around his shoulder.

 

“I-yeah.” Bizio manages to stammer out, tears openly rolling down his cheeks now, tears he makes no attempt to hide. “Just talking to my son, it- it reminds me how real this all is.”

 

“If you need an escape, I can hook you up, no worries,” Enrico offers, voice sweet and inviting, and for a second, Bizio is tempted, before-

 

“He’s not interested.” Eugent stands behind the two men, tattooed arms crossed across his chest, and his voice is sterner than Bizio’s ever heard before.

 

“He can speak for himself, I think you’ll find.”

 

Eugent gives no reply, but goes to walk in the opposite direction, motioning with his head for Bizio to follow. There’s a moment of awkward silence before Enrico cocks his head at Eugent.

 

“Unless there’s something you wanted from me, little whore.” He sneers at the last words and walks towards Eugent, brushing a hand under the man’s stubbly chin. Eugent, however doesn’t flinch.

 

“Not anymore, darling.”

 

“Oh? Decided to keep your legs shut, have you? Well, well, well, you have changed.”

 

“That’s none of your business, Enrico.”

 

“But it was, wasn’t it? Who was it that got you that cleaning job you wanted, arranged your transfer to that nice bunk beside the window, hmn?”

 

“I kept my side of the bargain. I owe you nothing.”

 

“And yet here you are, practically showing off those biceps to anyone who’ll notice them, pouncing on the poor new guy, just clinging to anybody who’ll show you the slightest bit of attention? You’ve sunk that low? At least when you were spreading your legs for favours you knew you were getting something in return. Now, you’re just… lonely and lost.”

 

“So it’s sexual frustration that’s making you an asshole today, I see.”

 

“And here you are in front of me. Desperate much?”

 

“I’m not here for you, Enrico.” He briefly glances at Fabrizio, who’s watching the scene unfold intently.  “Dream on, bitch.”

 

And Eugent starts walking away, when Enrico raises his voice loudly enough for anyone listening to hear.

 

“You can be as stubborn as you like, Eugent. We all know you’ll be bending over for any man who’ll give your slutty body the time of day sooner or later. You can’t keep away from it. Once a filthy Albanian whore, always a filthy, Albanian whore.”

 

And as Eugent continues to walk away, an unreadable expression on his face, all Bizio can do is watch, too stunned to think about his family anymore.

 

“Watch out for that one, Mobrici,” Enrico chuckles as he reaches into his pocket, exposing the tip of a package inside to the man.

 

“Um, thanks Enrico, but I- I’m good.”

 

And he walks away without another word.

 

\---

 

An hour or so later Fabrizio enters the bunk, where Eugent sits on his bed, eyes closed, headphones in. They look pathetically feeble, and the device he uses to listen to the music is at least a decade old, the masking tape on it barely holding it together, and the headphones do little to contain the sound. It takes Bizio ten seconds to work out that he’s listening to Marillion.

 

Silently, he undresses, changing into his (now clean) loose outfit for sleeping, and is putting the sheets onto his bed, when Eugent swipes his discarded jumpsuit, still listening to his music.

 

“Eugent, what on earth-”

 

But the man isn’t listening to Bizio. He just runs his fingers along the jumpsuit, feeling in all the pockets and crannies, before finally pulling the headphones out of his ears.

 

“You’re clean.” The man says, matter of factly, a soft smile underlying the words.

 

“Thanks to you and Frankie,” Bizio smiles, taking his jumpsuit back and stuffing it under his bed.

 

“‘I’m proud of you, Moro.” 

 

I’m proud of you. 

 

Four words. Words that shouldn’t have the effect that they do on him. He has to look away from Eugent’s gaze to process them. Nobody’s told him that before, ever, and he never realised how much he needed to hear them until now.

 

“You’re the first person to say that to me.”

 

“Then I’ll say it again.”

 

And he does. He remains sat on his bed as he does so, the distance between them beginning to feel awkward, uncomfortable…

 

At least Eugent’s not making a move. Bizio doesn’t know how he’d feel if the man tried to kiss him, there’s a part of him who thinks he’d be angry, push him away, tell him to fuck off, to leave him alone to do his time and get the fuck out of here.

 

But there’s a part of him that wants to be kissed. To be held. To be looked after… Maybe that kind, handsome, selfless bunkmate isn’t all bad.

 

“Nobody’s said it to me either, you’re not alone there.” Eugent has a smile on his face as he speaks, yet his eyes can’t lie, glimmering with sadness and pain.

 

“Then I will.” Bizio replies, looking up to meet his gaze. 

 

“But you’ve got nothing to be proud of me for.”

 

“You didn’t kill Enrico for insulting you in front of everyone. I don’t like to think of what I would do if someone spoke to me like that.”

 

Eugent laughs, and this time his eyes smile too.

 

“You’re sweet, Moro. Can’t say I pictured you as a violent man, but those biceps of yours might just come in handy one day.”

 

“I’m not violent, really. Who has the energy to fight other people when life beats you down enough?”

 

“How philosophical. I didn’t always have a choice.”

 

“In prison, or on the streets?”

 

There’s a pause, and Bizio is about to change the subject when Eugent cuts in.

 

“When you’re eighteen, homeless, and living from day to day on the little you’ve got, you keep that money safe at all costs. As for customers, I’ve had to make a few getaways when Jekyll turned into Hyde.”

 

“So they all deserved it, then?” Bizio smiles.

 

“Those ones did.”

 

“There were others?”

 

Silence.

 

Eugent comes to sit on Bizio’s bed, keeping his distance, yet ensuring nobody can eavesdrop. He speaks in a lower voice.

 

“Moro, if I tell you something, you won’t- you won’t tell anyone else, right?”

 

“It’s all safe with me.”

 

“Promise?”

 

“Of course.”

 

A deep breath.

 

“When I was twenty, I realised that- that merely sleeping with random men wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I’d hoped that maybe I could save the money, put something together, get a permanent place and maybe a job, but it became pretty clear that that wasn’t gonna happen.

 

I had to make a life for myself. And I wanted to do something impactful, something where I was important, where I actually mattered…”

 

“So what did you do?”

 

“Well, when you’re an illegal immigrant prostituting yourself on the street for ridiculously cheap rates, your clients don’t tend to be men of repute, or strong morality. 

 

I suppose, what I’m trying to say, they were all criminals. Every last one. But as I got more regular, I got more intrigued into their jobs, their lives, their world. Mine was one of desperation, filth and repetition, theirs one of excitement, living life to the full, risking everything every time they broke the law, yet the rewards they reaped were just- it seemed so...alluring.

 

So I decided to expand on the services I offered. I carried drugs and guns from customer to client, stood watch for cops and raised the alarm if one turned up, did what they needed me to do, and I loved it. I shouldn’t say that. I’m meant to be repenting in here, regretting every misdeed and feeling nothing but guilt. But I don’t feel guilty. I know I am, in the sense of I broke the law, but everything I did, all those acts...I just wanted to live. Not merely survive as an urchin.”

 

“So what exactly are you in here for, then?”

 

“I got myself this regular, who worked as a dealer, who worked for a gangleader, who worked for a kingpin. Being an ambitious criminal, I set my eyes on him, at the top of the ladder. If I was his right hand man, I’d be someone worth hearing about, you know what I mean?

 

Anyway, seducing him wasn’t hard. After 5 years working as a whore, I’d gotten pretty good at it, I reckon. Well, he clearly thought so. He doted on me, that man did, and maybe it was love between us, maybe just a desire for some human contact in a world of lies and violence, but we were close. I saw my future at his side, living life to the full until the day our empire collapsed and we were wiped out by a cascade of bullets, hand in hand, guns blaring, sirens flashing…

 

But he clearly didn’t feel the same way. I did everything he asked of me. Everything, no complaint. If he asked me to lay down and die for him, I would have done. If he asked me to kill for him, hell, I did. But I was foolish. He decided last year that he wanted more territory, that he wanted to expand our realm, and I was told to be the lookout. As expected, the police arrived. I went to call him, to warn him, but they grabbed my phone, pinned me against the wall, and, well, now I’m here.”

 

“But I don’t understand-”

 

“I was his scapegoat. Everything was pinned on me, they found out I had no legal status in Italy, and the case was decided. I was criminal scum, and he was never caught. Fucking bastard.”

 

Eugent goes to wipe a tear running down his cheek, but Bizio beats him to it. Instinctively, he pulls the man into a hug, both leaning against his pillow.

 

“You were betrayed.”

 

“Yeah. It still hurts, sometimes.”

 

“Did you love him?” Bizio cautiously asks.

 

“No. I worshipped him.” Eugent replies, a sad smile etched on his face. 

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s not your fault, Moro.”

 

“Can I ask a question about earlier?”

 

Eugent stiffens, inhales and nods.

 

“What happened with you and Enrico?”

 

A soft smirk.

 

“Nothing, really. He liked the look of me when I first arrived here, I wanted a job to earn some commissary money, and a nicer bunk. He had connections that could fix things up, so I did what I do best, and he gave me what I asked for.”

 

“Couldn’t you have asked a guard?”

 

“Not all of us have families who can contact prison managers and fill up our commissaries, I’m afraid.”

 

“Shit, forget I said-”

 

“Hey, you didn’t mean it, Moro. It’s ok.”

 

The two men sit in silence for a while, calmly resting in each other’s company, skin pressed against skin on the scratchy blankets provided to the prisoners.

 

“One piece of advice, then I’ll go back to my own bed and shut up.” Eugent says.

 

“Ok?” Bizio laughs, unsure of what to think.

 

“If you decide you want to start taking drugs again- I know you’re clean now and want to start afresh but hear me out- use a dealer from another dorm. Never go to Matteo, or Enrico, or Gideon, or any B-dorm people.”

 

“Why?”

 

“They can attack you when you sleep. I’ve seen it happen, when folk get into debt or steal drugs, or fuck up their dealer’s business.”

 

“Thanks...I guess.”

 

“But if you do use again, I will personally tie you to the bunk until you’re sober, and break your legs to stop you running back afterwards,” Eugent smiles, “But it’s late now, so I’m gonna get to sleep.”

 

He rises from Bizio’s bunk, patting his shoulder slightly. Bizio waits for him to settle down into his own bunk before he pipes up.

 

“By the way, I’m sorry for being a dick earlier.”

 

“Oh for gods sake, you weren’t the asshole then. I should have respected your boundaries, not trampled down on them, really.”

 

“No Eugent, I’m the one apologising, ok? This morning wasn’t on you.”

 

“If you say so.” Eugent replies, a smug look on his face.

 

“Anyways, sleep well.”

 

“How can I without you to warm me?” Eugent says dramatically, a hand over his eyes causing Bizio to laugh.

 

“Goodnight, Peps.”

 

“Night, Moro.”

  
  



End file.
